Oh God.
Ngiyakukhumbula.
My God,
how you are missed.
some kind of man
He kept trying to explain. When he
tried the first time, she didn’t get it.
When he explained again, she didn’t
want to understand. The more that he
tried to tell her, the less she wanted to
know. He smelled of something
strong and sweet. Perfume. Not
liquor.
“Believe me,” Samuel had begged,
and as soon as he said that she felt as
though she never would again. “It’s
not what you think.” He was right about
that. It was far beyond
anything that she could ever have
imagined. She felt as though she
would die. The worst thing about
somebody who betrays you,
somebody who turns out to be a
completely different person to whom
you first thought, is the love that you
still feel in your heart for them,
embedded so deeply into the narrow
spaces of yourself that you cannot
access it to try and remove it.
He said, “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.
This doesn’t mean what you think.”
She slapped him in the face and the
more he stood there and took it
and the more she collapsed into tears,
the more she loved him and could
not understand it.
But everybody knew what kind of
man he was. He was the kind of man
who, when you woke up in the
middle of the night itching on the
joints of your fingers and your legs
and jaw line because the mosquitoes
had been at you again, would rub
cold ointment into your skin
whispering, “Hush baby, you will be
fine.” Or if you felt like you were
going to be sick and cried because
you were scared of vomiting, held
your body with one hand and stroked
your hair with the other, who
checked your fever when you said
you had a temperature, who would
cut the crust off your sandwiches and
pick all of the apricot pieces that you
didn’t like out of your muesli in the
morning. It had all been too good to
be true and his behaving exactly like a
saint at all times had only served to
set her up for the fall.
Perhaps she should have known.
Indeed, she should have known. She
wanted to blame his mother. His
sisters. Somebody. She decided that
these things—the devil’s work—strike
as a kind of test. She would have to
deal with it immediately.
It was evening on the sixth day.
According to the calendar, the sunset
was in forty-five minutes and there
were far too many things to do
before then. She wanted to write
something about it all on the lines
rovided under this week’s Bible
study notes. A prayer. Something
about masculinity. Something about
loss. But it was all too fresh. She
hadn’t ever seen him cry before that
evening. He told her that he was
sorry, again and again. Kept telling
her that she was all that he needed.
There were things to be done.
By nightfall that evening she was on
her knees praying because the
Sabbath was upon them. The lunch
boxes had been packed for church
and their boy was in bed, dreaming
about Jesus and spaceships.
What did this mean for her now?
What would they do next? Was it safe
to have the father continue living
there? She felt guilty at the thought.
Right after it happened, Samuel took
the car. Didn’t know quite where he
was going. Drove awhile. Drank
some soup by the roadside. Decided
that the only place to go right now
was Benny’s.
He didn’t dare consider what he
might have lost. Each time he tried to
process what had happened, his
breathing became light and his
temples thudded until they were sore.
Benny didn’t say anything when he
came to the door. He stepped aside
to let Samuel in and didn’t speak,
except to ask him if he needed to
breathe into a paper bag and if he
wanted some Scotch. Samuel declined
the drink but took the bag. Benny left
him sitting on the bed in the back
room, staring hard at the mirror on
the wall.
A short while later Samuel could
hear Benny moving about in the
kitchen, whistling and sweeping up
the porch. He was tired. He heard the
television. He wondered if he should
fast and pray on this. But he already felt
weak of heart and spirit. His
vision was blurred. He wondered
what it was that he needed to do
from now to make everything right
again. But had it been right before?
Benny was looking at the television,
but he wasn’t watching it. He was
thinking about the situation regarding
the man in the back room, namely the
man’s wife and the little boy.
Wondering what would happen. If
she would talk. That said, he didn’t
know how much Samuel had told
her. He was wondering why this type of
thing had to be such a big deal. If he were
braver and didn’t value his
own privacy so much—if he was
younger, angrier, he might have been
an activist. Self-expression is a tricky
thing. Just as you start to feel
comfortable with yourself after years
of not, you then have to justify
yourself to other people.
He was sure that Samuel would come
out of the room when he was ready.
He continued squinting at the TV,
peering at the shapes and people
moving around, staring at the corners
of the set and the metal and the
digital lines, began to dream.
He had always known what he
wanted to do, but had waited
patiently until his father died. His
father would have called it evil. Most
people still did but generally those he
helped would keep private things
private. He wondered what Samuel
had said. Hoped that his wife wasn’t
going to take it to those crazy people
in the church tomorrow, because he
believed those people to be the most
dangerous. His father had been a
long-standing member at the church
and had raised the children there.
He sucked in a lungful and exhaled,
the smoke rings unfurling in the air.
It had all started with shoes. As a
young boy, he had developed a
wonderful fascination with the
curve of a woman’s foot in a shoe.
He drew them on paper over and
over again. A heel. A boot. Benny
had always loved to make clothes for
his sister’s dolls and could not
understand why everyone was sot
horrified. He had grown up with
three brothers, two sisters and his
blind father, who beat the hell out of
him when he announced that he
wanted to make women’s clothing.
Never mind the fact that most of the
famous designers up in Europe and
America were all men. His father told
him that he wasn’t raising that kind of
boy and that he would learn to do
something else with his life.
Nobody argued with his father, ever.
Benny started creating aged thirty, the
same day they buried his father. He
took a lover for the first time too, a
twenty-three-year-old from the next
parish, who assured him that he could
make a business out of his gift. He took
the advice and between
dancehall wear and alternative outfits,
began to be known in the area for his
costumes and undergarments.
Known to those who knew. Some
men would go to him to buy outfits
for their wives, in larger sizes than he
knew their wives to be.
Samuel was lying down in the back
room. If he were home now he
would be polishing Michael’s little
black shoes on the blue tile steps to
the doorway, the warm
aroma of peanut porridge wafting
from the kitchen. He wanted to go
home and sort out the mess he’d
made. Beg for her forgiveness and
put all of this behind him. He had
slipped. He usually kept apparel
hidden at Benny’s and one moment
of carelessness had caused all of this.
He opened the right-hand door of the
wardrobe and took out a shoe. A
court shoe. A delicate, high-heeled
court shoe. Elegant, even in his size.
A blue satin court shoe with a silver
insole. It was so beautifully done.
He cradled it against his chest,
thought of Tessa and fell asleep.
In the little house, Tessa was listening
to a gospel CD and trying to study
the Bible. Trying to speak to God.
She was trying to do everything at
once. Each time she thought about
what happened earlier she wanted to
throw up.
She called him over when she saw the
plastic bag containing the underwear
stuffed underneath a roll of bin liners
in the boot of the car. A black bustier
with gold embellishments on it and
French panties. Not her size.
She had been angry and hurt at the
thought of another woman but in the
end she would have handled it fine.
Another woman she would have been
able to take. She had married him
fully prepared for it. Supposed that
with this beautiful man a whole foot
taller than her with smooth dark skin,
a square jaw and high cheekbones,
it would only be a matter of time. In
town, women stared at him all the
time.
People had always considered him
too attractive. Said she was looking
for trouble with a man so handsome.
So when she heard the ludicrous
explanation she couldn’t believe it.
Maybe it was someone at church.
Yes, maybe that was it. But he had
never lied to her about anything
before. And that pain in his face, that
shame. When he had stared at her
and said, “They are mine,” she
wanted to laugh. But one look at her
husband and she had known that it
was true.
She wondered if they just couldn’t
put it all behind them. Perhaps with
prayer and help from the church as a
collective. Her stomach churned
again as she imagined him dressed up
as somebody’s woman. How dare he.
How dare he ruin what they had
spent years building, with a beautiful
little boy and good jobs, both of
them. How could he? Couldn’t he put
away this perversion when his family
was at risk?
Samuel woke up with an ache
between his ribs and saw that it was
the shoe heel. He could hear Benny
snoring from the living room. On his
knees he began to pray for any sign.
He wondered if he should leave the
country. Follow his sister to Miami
and send the child money from over
there. What kind of role model was
he, anyway? What kind of man was
he? He was a man who was in love
with his wife, loved his son and
wanted to be who he was. He wanted
all of those to coexist. Was that
wrong?
In the morning, Tessa got up and
prepared herself for church. She got
Michael dressed and ready. There was
walked.
The two of them arrived there after
the early morning Bible school. The
bottom of Michael’s trousers were
dusty and they were both sweating a
little. She took her place on a pew,
and ushered Michael towards the
front to sit with the other children.
She heard one of the ladies behind
her whisper that they wouldn’t let
their son leave the house with such
dirty shoes. The other lady whispered
that the little boy’s hair was looking
rough and should have been combed
out better. Tessa’s face burned and
she stared straight ahead, putting a
hand to her own hair, which was
shining and pressed into obedience.
She wished that she had combed hert
child’s hair better and that her
husband didn’t like to dress in
women’s clothes. She wished that she wasn’t going
to lose everything.
Perhaps he was not mentally sound.
He had never been like other men,
wanting to run around and father
children all over the place. He never
looked at other women.
Indeed, she should have known. He
was God-fearing and quiet and always
ready to help. Had she been
i
nadequate as a woman maybe?
Perhaps she had let him help around
the house too much? She had been
unwell for a while. Yes, her head had
become quite sick after she gave birth
to Michael and hardly wanted to look
at the child. Samuel was left with the
baby, having to play the mother’s
role. Perhaps it was that. She shivered
in the house of the Lord and begged
forgiveness. Most days she still
looked at the child and although she
wanted to care for him so much, she
didn’t feel what she imagined she
should. But that was between her and
her God, not her and the child.
A lady in church was giving a
testimony about how she became a
Christian, how she had put away her
friends who had vices, how she
preferred to live alone rather than
around improper influences.
Tessa decided to take this to the
church. She felt moved to speak
freely among her brothers and sisters
in Christ.
When she rose to her feet to speak, a
respectful quiet ran through the
church. Her voice rang pure and clear
as she called on the Father, the Son and
the Holy Spirit, asking for help from the
Trinity and the heavenly
angels surrounding them. She told
them. Asked for their guidance,
comfort and support. There was a
silence. Somebody offered to anoint
her. She felt hands on her, from her
head to her shoulders, waist and legs.
She was vibrating, pulsing with the
energy of the church family. It was
quite unlike anything that she had felt before.
Everybody was murmuring
and praying and holding hands. Some
ladies were speaking in tongues. One
of them fainted and one was violently
sick but nobody was perturbed
because it was all down to the will of
the spirit.
No soul was left unmoved in the
church building that morning. This
epidemic, they all decided, was cause
for grave concern. The brother in
need had to be saved. It was the
church’s responsibility as a unit, a
body. They couldn’t allow another soul
to be destroyed. They needed to talk,
needed to pray, needed to get rid of
those demons that were around
infecting everybody’s children and
some people’s husbands and ruining
the country economically, spiritually
and politically. It just wasn’t right.