This Thing Called the Future Read Online Free Page B

don’t you stay in bed, Gogo?” I suggest. “God will understand if you miss church just once because you are so tired.”
    But no matter how tired she is, or how sick, Gogo always goes to church. “God never says, ‘I’m too much tired, I don’t think I’ll forgive your sins today,’” she says now as she struggles to sit up.
    I glance quickly down at her swollen knees. Gogo gasps as she tries to stand and I reach forward to give her support. We hobble into the dining room, where Gogo collapses on the sofa and Zi sits beside her, patting her arm. I pull a little table forward and lift Gogo’s feet to help bring the circulation back.
    â€œI’ll go to the sangoma after church and get some muthi to bring the swelling down,” I say. I need to see the sangoma myself—to talk to her about the dreams…about what happened yesterday…about the drunk man who looked like he turned into a crocodile…
    Mama stands in the doorway of the kitchen. “She needs to go to the doctor, Khosi,” she says.
    â€œThe sangoma’s herbs always work, Mama.” Please, Mama, I need to go.
    â€œA doctor’s medicine will work even better,” Mama says.
    â€œBut when can she go to the doctor?” I ask. “She can’t go alone and by the time I’m back from school, it’s too late, the clinic is closed.”

    Mama closes her eyes at the impossibility of it all. She leaves early Monday morning and comes home late on Friday night. After helping Inkosikazi Dudu last week, she can’t miss another day of work—we depend on her small salary for every last penny.
    â€œI can stay home from school and take Gogo to the clinic this week,” I offer, sinking inside.
    Mama shakes her head. “School is too important.”
    Anyway, if I stay home from school, Zi has to stay home from school, too. She is too young to walk through Imbali by herself or to catch a khumbi to go into the city, where we are lucky enough to go to a private school because we have scholarships.
    â€œThen let me go to the sangoma and get some herbs. It’s brought the swelling down in the past, Mama.”
    Mama sighs. “It’s the best way. For now.”
    I sit down beside Gogo and put my arm around her. “There are people from the parish who will come and let you celebrate mass here at home,” I say. “I’ll ask them to come this afternoon. You stay here and rest. Next week you’ll feel better.”
    So Gogo stays home from church, for the first time I can remember. While Mama is in the toilet getting ready, Gogo calls me to her side. I lean in close. “Don’t forget, tell the sangoma about the witch,” she whispers.
    â€œThat will be expensive, Gogo,” I say.
    She fiddles around in her pockets and hands me fifty rand . “If you can only pay for one thing, forget my muthi. It is not so important as blocking that old woman’s evil.”
    Mama locks the gate behind us, and we start walking up the hill toward our church, the Catholic one, which is just behind the water tank covered in bright, bold graffiti. Zi dances ahead of us, calling hello to the people we pass.
    We walk past house after house, past the tall buildings of flats, tsotsis hanging out on the top floors, smoking dagga, shaking their dreadlocks, and shouting insults at us.
    â€œYah, Ntombi, ” they scream at me. “Come have a good time!”
    Mama shakes her fist at them but they just laugh and stare at us. At me. “I don’t like the way men are looking at you, Khosi,” she says.

    â€œI never come this way alone,” I say. I’ve already learned to avoid the places where tsotsis hang out. I don’t like the way they approach, slow, like they have all the time in the world. They pass by me, staring, their faces a mask but their eyes lit up with—with what? Something I don’t want to see. I’ve never