The Donkeys are Rolling

1/1/10

It’s the holidays and I want to visit my old village one more time before 2010. I’m running late this evening so I decide to stay the night in a neighboring community to my old village. A volunteer/friend lives here and she invites me to stay the night. I call Mctosa (who happens to be in this community today) to tell him I’ll be arriving late. “Don’t worry.” He says. “I’ll be there with a car. I can give you a lift to your friend’s house.”

When I arrive, the sun is about to set, and I see Mctosa is standing tall against it. It’s evening, things have cooled down, which means the people are out drinking. Before he says anything, I can smell the booze on him. “You’ve been drinking.” I say. “Ah. never mind.” He replies. He asks me to take a seat with him outside a store. This town is a town with only one street lined with shops. You step off the kombi onto the road and immediately all eyes are on you- the white person. I’m getting tired of being the naked one in a crowd everyday. I start talking, as I do, to Mctosa about the camp and Nonjaboliso. He interrupts me and points at two “hoochie coochie” women walking by. One is glaring. “That’s my x.” He says to me. “Oh, the one who thinks we are together and you are HER husband? The one who called me months back and told me to stay away from you….that x?” I laugh. “Yes.” He says, I tell him I’m leaving. He grabs my arm before I can collect my things. “Wait wait wait.” He says slowly- knowing full well I’ll listen. She walks over-she slinks over to me. Her head sways back and forth. I fear this may turn into a “weave off”. I have become a woman of accessories and extensions-there are many things a woman could easily yank off during a “cat fight”. She bobbles her head and looks to the side pursing her lips, “Saaaaaawboooona.” She says to me. “Yebo.” I reply. She asks to speak with Mctosa alone. They walk a few feet away. She speaks and points at me- he half listens. She walks over, finger in my face now. Then points to Mctosa who, for the first time in his life is silent and sits back almost amused, “THIS IS MY HUSBAND! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” She stands closer. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!’ I stand closer, face to face now. “I’m leaving.” I grab my things and begin to walk towards the tar road. I will not be stuck in the dark. It’s about to rain. I will not be stuck in the rain. I pick up my pace. A man stops me. I don’t recognize him. “It’s me Sakhile. I work with you at Madleyna Primary School.” Someone from MY community here. Had he seen a weave off between me and hoochie coochie. I’m fuming now. How dare Mctosa put me in this position.

I huff and puff my way down the tar road trying hard to beat the sun. The rain begins and long lazy drops hit my head. A truck pulls over and Mctosa gets out. His friend is driving. “Simphiwe wait. Simphiwe!” I walk on by but he is soon standing in front of me. I push him hard in the chest….done with everything…done with everyone. “ I am NOT your fucking trophy!” I shout. “You wanted her to see me with you!” He tries to speak while I rant. I don’t even know what the words are that are coming out. They tumble and spill out….months of frustration…of harassment… abuse…cultural frustrations..language barriers. I let him have it. He interrupts, “Stupid American women! Always talking! Never listening! So stubborn!” I shout back, “Stupid Swazi men! Always know everything! Always know what’s best!”

And there we stood, face to face. Enemies. American woman vs. Swazi man. The incompatibility. Our two different cultures finally at war. "You're just like the rest of em." We're thinking. The rain falls down and around us. It sneaks inside our open, vulgar, mouths, filled with anger, filled with frustration, filled with nothing at all. Mctosa looks down at the ground, the rain rolling forward off his head. He steps closer and whispers slowly, “Simphiwe. I’m in love with a whiiiiite woooooman.” He looks into my eyes. His stupid drunk red eyes waiting for me to say it back. “Go home Mctosa. Go home to your baby. To Tenele (his girlfriend).”
“So because I am positive? Because of my status you can’t love me back?”
“That’s not fair. I will see you tomorrow Mctosa.” I walk around him.
“But tomorrow I’ll be dead.” He mutters.
“No. Tomorrow you’ll be hung over.”
I leave Mctosa behind as he shouts out, “Mctosa Mtetwa. Proud African! Thank you and goodnight!”

I see my volunteer friend approaching her gate and I worry how much she has seen. It’s strange and difficult to talk to most volunteers about the connections you make with the Swazis. Some think it’s weird to have actual friends that are Swazi. And most will tell you, as a woman, not to befriend a Swazi man at all. It’s ok if you get a Swazi to test at the clinic, to translate for you in the classroom, or to call them your counterpart at some meeting with an NGO. But call them your “friend” and bring them to meet your volunteer friends at lunch- it just doesn’t happen. And that’s who Mctosa is to them.
“Who was that?” My friend asks at the gate. “Mctosa.” I say. “Oh the one you got to test?” She asks. “Yes.”

And that’s where I leave it.

New Years Eve with other volunteers at a place they call House On Fire. Michael Jackson music and cold beer. Much needed. And apparently a conversation with Kathy. The Legend. Who I ran into. A conversation I have absolutely no memory of having. My friend tells me it must have been an engaging one. I had her laughing and seemed intense at times. He claims he’s never had such a conversation with her before. But he too doesn’t seem to remember what exactly was said. I worry I may have said too much. I worry she may have given me the answer I’ve been seeking, and due to alcohol is now lost forever. Shit.

I finally arrive to Nkiliji. The dogs have had their puppies, the fields have been plowed, and the barrels are full of rain water now. Nkiliji is lush with life. I find Make and Babe in the fields working. Make holds me tight, “Swani child! Swani child!” She rubs my breasts and kisses my chest for a good minute. The most action I’ve gotten in a long time. Babe steps forward holds my face with one hand, squeezing my cheeks together. He kisses each one. I leave the field and find EVERYONE at home. Make and Babe have six children: three boys and three girls…all a little older than myself and all with children. What was once empty homes on my homestead are now filled with people. Home for the holidays. Most rural Swazi homesteads will have gogo and mkhulu in the main house and many huts for their children. However, it is the wife and the children who reside in these homes while the men are off living at work. But because of the holidays, everyone is home. Bongiwe is at a friends braiding her hair. Chief is out drinking. Menzi is playing football with his friends. The elder children to Babe and Make are cooking and working the fields. Everyone and everything is as it should be. They tell me, “Simphiwe, you are HOME.“ Sibongile’s daughter, Andiswa runs up to me saying “umgcugcutele” over and over again. Umgcugcutele, the word that makes her laugh every time I say it. I turn to Bongiwe’s mother, Thembi (daughter to Make and Babe), “Thembi. Is Simone here?!” If you remember, I last saw Simone before I moved away from Nkiliji. The mother of the terror child, Toady, and girlfriend to Make and Babe’s son. “Yes. She’s in her hut.” I sneak towards the hut- my heart racing. She was my closest friend and I haven’t seen her in three months. I walk inside and see a body hiding behind a door. She steps out and we scream embracing each other. We pull back for a moment, in silence holding hands, and take each other in. We laugh and embrace one more time. I hear the sweetest voice. “Pee- whey! Pee- whey!” Naked Toady runs to me and grabs my legs. Simone tells me for months all Toady did was stand in the yard yelling, “Pee whey! Pee Whey!”

Simone and I take a seat- not really knowing where to start. I begin. I start with Alexander. I start with Mctosa. I go on with Babe Shongwe. I continue with crazy drunk man and moving. I explain Peace Corps’ mess ups and my frustrations. My new family, snakes, bats, and scorpions. Dead puppies and abuse on neighboring homesteads. Dumile and Nonjaboliso. Witchcraft, health clubs, and HIV camp. I take a breath. Silence. She’s not really sure what to say. She slaps my ass and shouts, “Well looks like your butt is becoming more and more Swazi! We need to work on this. Lets go fetch water.” And just like old times, I haul 4 barrels of water on our rickety old wheelbarrow as she follows close behind shouting, “Hurry Hurry! Your Swazi husband is hungry! He wants his dinner!” When we return I ask where Gigi is.

“You won’t find her well.” Simone warns me. I walk into her bedroom. The stench of urine punches me in the nose. I find Gigi on the floor, lying on her side, a few blankets underneath her. I kneel by her side and hold her hand. Bone thin. She is wasted. “She stopped eating a week ago. No one can get her to eat. We don’t understand. She’s not sick and her broken arm is healing.” They go on to tell me Gigi spends most of her day in this room alone. They try to bathe her once a day and then put her back in isolation. To me, it sounds like she’s given up. I walk her outside to her favorite spot. The tire on the middle of the homestead. I sit with her. She squints, her eyes not used to the sun anymore. Make thinks I’ll be able to get her to eat. She hands me a bowl of torn chicken pieces and porridge. I ask Make to leave us. I have a feeling Gigi is punishing Make by not eating. I hold the spoon up to Gigi’s mouth and tell her how important it is for her to eat. And just like that. She begins to eat. For the next few days it is my job to feed her. I’ve got to find her a wheelchair. She’s dying in that tiny room all alone.

The next day I leave home and pay Mctosa a visit. His door is open and I see two tiny feet dangling off his bed. Tenele is there and they are playing cards. Their baby, Seven ,lies sleeping next to her. Tenele is comfortable with mine and Mctosa‘s friendship now. He has told her his status and that I was the one who encouraged him to test and have been helping him through it. She is comfortable with me now. We sit in silence playing cards. Mctosa shows a different side. Soft and caring. I watch him watching her. I see that he really does care about her. I pick up tiny Seven and hold him in my arms. He looks nothing like Mctosa. He has the balding head of an old man and his mother’s fair skin and tiny lips. He yawns and opens his eyes. “Oh there you are Mctosa. S you gave him your eyes. Big and wide- taking it all in.” Mctosa looks proud. I tell them I have to go. Mctosa puts down his cards and walks me home. We don’t speak of the previous night and our shared rage. I don’t expect an apology. We walk along the dirt road noticing the curved swirled marks of what Mctosa has always claimed were the imprints left by donkeys. “You’ve never seen them roll on their backs?” He always asks as he imitates what they look like. I hug him goodbye and tell him I’ll try to visit more often.

Back on the homestead, Menzi and I discuss the universe and PUDEMO (an organization against the King) while Bhule stumbles around singing loudly- drunk. But soon it is time for me to go. I ask everyone to meet me by the tire. I want to take a family photo. Babe and Make hold their children tight while the grandchildren play in front. I ask where Sibongile is. If you remember, Sibongile is the wife of Babe and Make’s son. She confided in me about her status when I first arrived to the homestead making me promise I would not tell anyone. “She does not want to be in the picture.” They tell me. I run down to her home and beg her to come. “You look beautiful! Please come be in the photo! You are my family too!” She is hesitant but finally gives in. She follows me to the rest of the family waiting. She stands behind trying to hide. She turns her back to me and begins to cry into the tree. I quickly take three photos trying to move on so she can go back to her hut. As I’m showing the family their pictures, Sibongile walks back down the hill. No one seems to notice or care.

Before I leave for town. I walk down to her hut. I knock on the door and she’s asks me to come in. I sit on her bed as she bucket bathes. Nudity means nothing to me anymore.
“I’m sorry Sibongile if I hurt you in anyway. I did not mean to force you into being in the family photo.”
“It’s ok Simphiwe.” She says. “I am not angry. I am different. Different than them. I am not like them. I should not be in a photo with them.”
“You aren’t different Sibongile.” I assure her.
“I’ve accepted it now. I am different. You know what I have. What I carry inside me. I am not like them.” She begins to cry.
“I know you carry a secret. I know you carry pain. But you know what. We all do. We’re all living with illness, regret, and pain. Every one of us. Even I. You are no different.”

She continues to bathe and cry as I look hard at the ground. How do I make her believe me? These stupid fucking support groups in clinics of the rural areas for those living with HIV don’t provide any psychosocial support. Just meetings on how to make money. She’s so beautiful. Inside and out. I am looking at a beautiful body, a beautiful mother, wife, and friend. She stands and we hug. Her wet, naked, skin on me. I hold her head, “You’re beautiful.” I say.

On the bus ride back to Siphofaneni. Back to another family with other problems. I am thinking about Gigi. I am thinking about Sibongile. How am I going to pull them out of this. Im crammed next to a big mamma, my body pushed up against the window. I lean my head against the glass and look outside. And there, for the first time in 7 months, I see it. Three donkeys rolling on their backs on the side of the dirt road- smiling. I turn back and watch for as long as I can. Mctosa was right. I turn back around and smile. Big mamma leans in and says to me,
“You are happy Sisi.” She smiles.
“Right now Make. I am.”