“She wasn’t mad at all that I’d stood in line with you,” Nomvula says, which isn’t exactly a lie, since Nomvula had never mentioned the incident to her mother.
Mr. Tau is very gentle with her. He takes her inside, helps her find a comfortable pose, then he sits down, knocking chunks of wood off at a time. And while he works, he tells her stories of an ancient time, with gods and wars and trees brought alive by animal spirits. Nomvula smiles as she listens, trying not to move too much. She thinks Mr. Tau has a wonderful imagination and that he’d be fun to play pretend with.
In no time, a recognizable shape begins to form.
“Okay, Nomvula,” Mr. Tau says after nearly an hour. “You may stretch your legs now.”
Nomvula gets up and takes a look at the sculpture; the face looks just like hers, and he’s even gotten the pattern of her skirt perfect.
“It’s still rough,” Mr. Tau says. “I’ll work the details out later.”
“She’s pretty. But can you make her nose smaller?”
“For you, my dear, I can do anything.” And with three quick taps, she’s got a delicate nose, just like the woman in her dream, except one thing.
“Do you think she’d be prettier, just wearing her skin?”
“Nude, you mean?”
Nomvula nods, then swallows. She shouldn’t have said that. She should have left it alone. So what if the sculpture wasn’t exactly like in her dream?
“I’m sorry, Mr. Tau, but I think I need to get back to my mother. She’ll be wanting her pap soon.” Nomvula starts for the door, but Mr. Tau grasps her wrist, his hand as rough and hard as stone.
“Nomvula,” he says. “Don’t go.”
“I have to, Mr. Tau. Please!”
“I wish there were more time,” he says, and then reels her into him. His rough hand slips under the back of her shirt, sliding up against her skin. “I need you to trust me, Nomvula.”
And it’s then that Nomvula sees what’s so frightening about Mr. Tau. Not one big thing, but hundreds of tiny little things: the words he speaks like he’s trying too hard, the way he moves like a stranger in his own skin, the way his eyes seem much older and more powerful than they possibly could be.
“You did rape my mother!” Nomvula screams. “In her dreams, just like she said.”
Mr. Tau frowns as he pulls Nomvula’s tight red shirt up and over her arms. She shivers at his touch, hand midway up her back. “For eleven years, your mother’s grief has haunted me. I wish it could have been easier on her, but it had to be done.”
“You’re not Zulu! You’re some kind of devil.” Nomvula shrills as loudly as she can, hoping someone will hear her and save her, but Mr. Tau puts his hand over her mouth.
“Quiet, dear. In a moment, all will be revealed.”
Nomvula feels a familiar pinch between her shoulder blades, one she hasn’t felt since she was a little girl flying over the brush and teasing birds and hoping to reach the sun. Her back warms and itches like she’s being gobbled up by tsetse flies. The thin threads of her wings break through her skin and sizzle as they meet the cool air. Nomvula grits her teeth. Tears stream down her cheeks. This is pretend, Nomvula tells herself. But then Mr. Tau stretches her wings out, like the wispy straw of an old broom, holding them by their very tips.
“This is a trick.” She sobs softly. “Mama Zafu says people don’t have wings.”
“She’s right,” Mr. Tau says, his own golden wings slicing through the fabric of his shirt and burning bright like the rays of the summer sun. “People don’t . . . but we do.”
Chapter 5
Muzi
Muzi isn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but he sure as hell knows it wasn’t this. The witch doctor, Mr. Sohobese, stands in his living room, two sheets to the wind, and a hard breeze from the grave. A velour tracksuit hangs from his slender body like loose skin, zipper open to reveal a tangle of bone necklaces dangling around his neck. His wrinkled hand tremors slightly as it palms the knob of a walking stick that Muzi is pretty damned sure is made from ivory.
Mr. Sohobese and Papa Fuzz embrace, and their boisterous greeting soon turns to hushed whispers. Muzi finds himself straining to hear, inching closer yet wishing he were a million miles away. They’re speaking about him, he’s sure. About his manhood. Fear surges through Muzi as this foolish decision of his suddenly seems all too real. The floorboard creaks beneath his tackies, and Papa Fuzz looks up. Too late, Muzi ducks back around the corner.
“Muzikayise!” his Papa Fuzz calls. “Come meet an old friend of mine.”
Muzi clenches his eyes shut, his mind still wobbly from the godsend. From Elkin. His thoughts whip back to his childhood where Papa Fuzz would chase him down the hall, calling his name, and Muzi would scream at the top of his lungs “Come and get me! Come and get me!” giddy with the anticipation of tickle hugs when he was finally caught. He could run now, and no one would ever catch him—because he sure as hell knows there’s no tickle coming at the end of this meeting. The last whispers of his childhood had slipped through his fingers this afternoon, and men didn’t run when fear reared its ugly head.
Muzi takes one timid step into the living room, keeping one hand on the back of his mother’s favorite sitting chair for support. “Mr. Sohobese,” he says, other hand extended, then manages to utter, “it’s an honor . . .”
Papa Fuzz beckons Muzi closer. Muzi tries to comply, but his knees are locked and there’s no budging. The witch doctor’s dull eyes come to life, darting all over Muzi’s body, so hard, Muzi feels the steely gaze nicking away at his skin, chopping away at his locks. He shudders at the way Mr. Sohobese makes him feel so naked. Maybe if Muzi didn’t have to go through this alone. Maybe if he’d bothered to learn the rituals of his ancestors. Maybe if Mr. Sohobese hadn’t just drawn a spear blade from inside that damned velour jacket of his, then maybe Muzi could have seen this promise through.
Muzi turns and sprints down the hallway, back to his room. He locks the door, then falls to the ground, a shivering wreck. The lion mural his sister had painted stares at him—those riveting yellow eyes, proud narrow face, its mane a stylized spray of autumnal leaves in reds, and golds, and deep browns interwoven with double helixes. Themba was his name. Too majestic to be confined in captivity, but not majestic enough to stop a poacher’s bullet from exploding his heart. It was his DNA that ran through the bioengineered versions of lions that roamed the veld these days. To Muzi, Themba embodied equal parts hope and longing—a longing for the innocence of the past, and a hope for the future to come. And here Muzi also stands right in the crux of it all. No longer the child of his past, but definitely not yet the man he hopes to be.
A soft knock comes at the door. The knob twists to no avail. “Son?” comes Papa Fuzz’s voice. “Can I come in?”