Ways of Dying (3 page)

‘Miss, I am looking for my brother.'

‘Oh, is that so? I thought you were paying us a social visit, because I see you just standing there staring at me.'

She was led by a white-coated official to a corridor where there were a dozen corpses lying naked on the floor. None of these were her brother. She was led to another room, with more naked bodies on the floor. These, she was told, had just been delivered that morning. Altogether there were perhaps twenty bodies of old and young men and women, beautiful girls with stab wounds lying in grotesque positions, children who were barely in their teens, all victims of the raging war
consuming our lives. ‘I tell you, mothers and fathers, there is death out there. Soon we shall experience the death of birth itself if we go on at this rate.' People were not thrilled at the Nurse's constant editorializing. They wanted her to get to the marrow of the story: how she got the corpse of this our brother. But she felt that these things had to be said nevertheless.

The white-coated official led her to another room with corpses in trays almost like oversized filing cabinets. It was a very cold room. The official said, ‘Most of these are the bodies of unidentified persons. I can only open two trays at a time, and then we must run away quickly to get to the warmth of the sun outside. If we don't, we'll freeze to death in here.' And so he opened two trays, and she looked at the bodies. She shook her head, and they rushed out to stand in the sun. After a few minutes, they went inside again and repeated the process. It was obvious that this procedure was going to take many days. The fact that new corpses were brought in all the time, while others were taken out for burial, complicated things. But she was prepared to go through all the distress, even though her stomach was turning, and she was salivating, ready to throw up. It was late in the afternoon, and she had gone through the procedure more than ten times when a saviour came in the form of another white-coated official who looked senior both in years and in rank. ‘You can identify your brother by the clothes he was wearing,' he said. He explained that all the clothes that the dead people were wearing were stacked in a room, with numbers on them corresponding to the numbers on the trays.

The sister did not know what clothes her brother was wearing. After phoning his wife, who described them to her, she went to the pile of clothes. She was relieved to find them there after just a few minutes of looking; relieved not because her brother was dead, but because at last the search was over. ‘These are the clothes my brother was wearing when he was last seen by his family,' she told the official. They went back to
the cold room, and the official pulled out the tray. But the body was not there. The tray was empty!

The white-coated official was concerned. On investigating the matter, he found that the body that had been in that tray had been released that morning, obviously by mistake, to a family which lived in another town. It had been given to their undertaker. It was late in the evening, and the only thing the sister could do was to go home and sleep.

The next morning, accompanied by a few male relatives, she got onto a train that took them to the town where her brother's body had been dispatched. To their horror, the body was already in the graveyard, and a funeral service was in progress. A strange-looking man, the very man who could be seen sitting on the mound mourning with them today for their beloved brother, was sitting on a mound in that distant town, weeping softly. The body of their brother was about to be buried by strangers, when they got there and stopped the funeral service.

‘What is wrong with these people? What is their trouble?'

‘I tell you, people of God, it is a wrong body you are burying there. It is the body of my brother.'

‘Who are these people who want to steal our corpse?'

A fight nearly ensued, with the undertaker insisting that it was the right body, and that the madwoman accompanied by her mad delegation must be arrested for disrupting a solemn occasion. But the sister stood her ground. ‘Kill me if you will,' she said. ‘I am not going away from here until you release the body of my brother.' She was determined that if they refused, they should bury her there with him. The strange-looking man saved the day. ‘Please,' he appealed to the indignant crowd, ‘let us not desecrate this place where the dead have their eternal sleep by fighting here. It is easy to solve this problem. Open the coffin to prove once and for all that this is the right body.' The undertaker, supported by some members of the family that
supposedly owned the corpse, refused and told the minister to continue with the funeral service. But some members of the crowd advised that the coffin be opened so as to avoid the scandal of a fight in the graveyard. The coffin was opened, and indeed this our brother was in it.

Before the delegation took the body home, the sister spoke with the strange-looking man who had helped them by suggesting that the coffin be opened.

‘Who are you, father, who have been so helpful?'

‘I am Toloki the Professional Mourner.' Then he explained about his profession, and told them that, in fact, this was his very first job in this small town so far away from the city cemeteries where he regularly worked.

‘You are a good man. We shall engage your services for the funeral of this our brother.'

‘It will be my pleasure to mourn for him a second time.'

That was why they were seeing him there, mourning his heart out.

But this was not all that the Nurse wanted to say about this our brother. The sister had gone further in investigating who had brought her brother's body to the mortuary. It was brought in by the police, she found. She went to the police station to inquire where the police had found her brother's body. It was found, she was told, near a garage next to the hostels where migrant workers from distant villages lived. In the morning, the garage nightwatchman noticed something that was not there the previous night. He went closer and discovered a man's body. The head had been hacked open, and the brain was hanging out. There were bullet wounds on the legs. He phoned the police, who came and took the body. They said more bodies with similar wounds had been found nearby. They were all packed into the police van and dumped in the mortuary.

‘Yes, it must be the migrant workers from the hostels,' various
people in the crowd shouted angrily. ‘They have killed a lot of our people, and all we do is sit here and keep on talking peace. Are we men or just scared rats?'

There was no one who did not know that the vicious migrants owed their allegiance to a tribal chief who ruled a distant village with an iron fist. They came to the city to work for their children, but the tribal chief armed them, and sent them out to harass the local residents. Sometimes they were even helped by the police, because it helped to suppress those who were fighting for freedom. Nobody seemed to know exactly why the tribal chief did these ugly things, or where his humanity had gone. But others in the crowd said that it was because he wanted to have power over all the land, instead of just his village. He wanted to rule everybody, not just his villagers, even though he did not have support from the people. Throughout the land people hated him and wished him dead. People knew who their real leaders were, the crowd said, and if the tribal chief wanted to play a rough game, then he would find himself facing his age-mates.

This politicking was interfering with Toloki's inspired mourning. He calmed the crowd down, and told them to concentrate on the business of mourning. Although the issues that the people were angry about were important, they could always discuss them when they got back to the squatter camps and townships. They had grassroots leadership in the form of street committees, which had always been effective in calling meetings to discuss matters of survival and self-defence. Everybody in the crowd agreed with him. He felt very proud of the fact that people had listened to his advice. Perhaps he was gaining more importance in the eyes of the community. Before these incidents where he found himself actually acting in an advisory capacity, his role had been to mourn, and only to mourn. He must keep his priorities straight, however. The
work of the Professional Mourner was to mourn, and not to intervene in any of the proceedings of the funeral. It would lower the dignity of the profession to be involved in human quarrels.

That was yesterday. Today he was treated with the utmost disrespect, and now he is annoyed. He sleeps, and in his dreams he sees the sad eyes of Noria, looking appealingly at the bickering crowd.

Toloki opens his eyes. Boxing Day. One of those senseless holidays when we do not bury our dead. Like Christmas Day. Instead we go for what we call a joll. All it means is that we engage in an orgy of drinking, raping, and stabbing one another with knives and shooting one another with guns. And we call it a joll. We walk around the streets, pissing in our pants, and shouting, ‘Happee-ee-e!' That's what Christmas is all about. And Boxing Day is the day we go out to bars and she-beens to take off the hangover of yesterday. But by midday, the whole orgy has started all over again. Some of us, the better-off ones, go out to the beach to play volleyball and frisbees, and to piss and vomit on the golden sands as the day gets older. It was just sheer luck that there was a funeral yesterday: only because that stuck-up bitch Noria was sensible enough to insist that her son be buried on Christmas Day, and not on any other day. The street committee, or whoever is in charge of the lives of the squatter-camp dwellers, could have refused, but they acceded to her wish. It just shows how much power Noria still has – especially over men.

Today he must go and see her. Fortunately he is still wearing his professional costume, since he was too lazy to change into his home clothes when he came back from the funeral yesterday. He really must discipline himself to change, and not to sleep in his costume. Otherwise it will get finished, and God knows where he will get another one like it. It was not easy getting this one. One day, years ago, he was passing by one of the city shopping malls. At the paved square where there were flowers and small trimmed trees growing in giant concrete
pots, and genteel people sitting at the small round tables eating all sorts of food, he saw a small shop that he had not noticed before. It was between the two restaurants where the pavement diners had ordered their food. Different types of costumes were displayed at the window, and he was struck by a particularly beautiful outfit all in black comprising a tall shiny top hat, lustrous tight-fitting pants, almost like the tights that the young women wear today, and a knee-length velvety black cape buckled with a hand-sized gold-coloured brooch with tassels of yellow, red and green. He fell in love with it. He knew immediately that it would be most suitable for his new vocation which he had decided on only the previous day after his disagreement with Nefolovhodwe.

Toloki walked inside the shop, and was welcomed with a firm handshake by the old man who owned the shop, and his son, who was being trained in the trade. The old man explained to him that his shop served the theatre world. Most of his outfits were period costumes that actors and producers came to rent for plays that were about worlds that did not exist anymore. But other costumes did not belong to any world that ever existed. These were strange and fantastic costumes that people rented for fancy dress balls, or for New Year carnivals, or to make people laugh. Toloki asked him about his favourite outfit in the window. ‘Oh, that one,' said the old man. ‘I have only rented it out once before, to some Americans who wanted it for a Halloween party.'

‘Can I buy it?'

‘Buy it? Of course. Although God knows what you'll be buying it for. People don't normally buy these costumes. They rent them because they are things you use only once, and never again.'

‘I want to own it.'

But when he heard what the price was, he knew he could not afford it in a hundred years. It was expensive, he was told,
because it was made of very expensive material: silk and velvet. He left with a very painful heart, for he really wanted that costume. He could see himself in it, an imposing (albeit stocky) figure in some of the greatest cemeteries of the world, practising his vocation which was slowly taking shape in his mind.

He went back to the shop every day, and sat outside that window looking longingly at the costume. Leaking from his open mouth were izincwe, the gob of desire. The owners of the two restaurants began to complain. ‘He is frightening our customers away,' they said. ‘Who would want to eat our food while looking at the slimy saliva hanging out of his mouth?' But Toloki refused to move away. It was a public place, wasn't it? Didn't he have a right to be where he wanted to be? At least if he couldn't afford to buy the costume, he had all the right in the world to sit there for the rest of his life and admire it. ‘What can we do?' the restaurant owners said resignedly. ‘Ever since these people began to know something about rights they have got out of hand. I tell you, politics has destroyed this country.' So, day after day Toloki came to admire his costume, until one day the restaurant owners decided to buy it for him. ‘Promise us that if we buy you this costume you will never come back here again,' they begged. He promised, and left happily with the nicely wrapped costume under his arm. He was never seen there again.