Tokoloshe
I'm not that comfortable leaving my child in the care of a native woman for three whole days, but Drew needs me. I take a deep breath, look out the window as we travel toward Wandi's, and try to relax. Outside, barefoot farmworker children dressed in ragged shorts and oversized shirts play their childhood games amidst the spidery orange aloe that rises from the red earth here in Magaliesberg, South Africa.
"Look, Sarah! Tractors!" Drew, my husband, points to a vast field nearby.
Sarah, sitting in the back seat of the Land Rover, pokes her head out the window. Tractors kick up red dust. Chocolate faces smile at us, and deep brown eyes dart from Drew, to me, to five-year-old Sarah.
We stop. Sarah throws her arms around my neck, her long blonde hair tickling my cheek.
"Can I play, Mama? Please."
"Not just yet, Sarah," I answer. "In a bit."
"Where can I find Wandi?" Drew asks a pencil-thin man with thick eyebrows and a long, hollow face.
The man, in his South Sotho dialect, summons three men of his tribe. In broken English, he directs us to a small village located five miles down the rutted road.
"Drew," I say, "do you really think it's wise to leave Sarah with a stranger? In a hut?"
He laughs and nudges my arm. "Wandi comes highly recommended, Annie. You told me she takes care of the Armstrong boy whenever Elizabeth and Kirby need to supervise their construction site, remember?"
I roll my eyes. "That's hardly a recommendation, Drew. Have you been around you-know-who lately?" I ask, glancing at Sarah through the mirror.
"I know who," Sarah says, squinching up her face. "Anthony." She frowns. "He's mean."
"You mustn't say that, Sarah."
"Well, he is."
She starts to cry. I know what's coming next.
"He killed my baby kitten. I hate him!"
I think about the bloated ball of black fluff lying at the bottom of the pond, a rock tied around its neck, and cringe. Anthony Armstrong is just a year older than Sarah. The two of them, once fast friends, now fight like two twig snakes going at each other's tails.
"He said he was sorry, Sarah," Drew says.
"He's not!"
Sarah doesn't believe him. Neither do I. When I tried to talk to him, after we buried Inkie, he sneered and ran, laughing, through his mother's field of thorny, flowering roses, oblivious to the rivulets of blood trickling down his bare legs. Elizabeth Armstrong shared my concern, but Kirby, busy with his snake collection, simply shrugged. "Boys will be boys," was all he said. Besides offering Sarah another kitten, which she didn't want.
In the Sotho village, thin strips of beef sizzle on the open fire. Clothes, held in place by bright pink clothespins, flap in the morning breeze. Nearby, a woman squats by a large wooden tub and rubs a section of the white sheet she is holding up and down, up and down on the worn scrub board.
"Wandi?" I ask.
She points to a nearby hut, where a round, barefoot woman wearing a purple checked dress trimmed with red beckons. A chartreuse bandana with a white leaf design hugs her head.
"Come in, come in," Wandi says in English. A wide, dimpled grin spreads across her face.
A little girl with braided hair, who looks to be about Sarah's age, peeks out from behind Wandi's skirt.
"Tanisha," Wandi says, still smiling. "Magubane and Rashida, her older sisters, go for water."
"Do they carry it on their heads?" Sarah asks.
Wandi nods.
"Will you teach me?"
Tanisha giggles and takes Sarah's hand.
We stoop and enter the immaculate hut. Lace curtains hang at the two small windows. An assortment of kitchen pots, utensils, dishes, and coil woven baskets rest on a bright yellow table. Behind the table, empty carrot, bean, and flower seed packets decorate the wall. In the space next to the kitchen is a four-drawer wooden chest. A single bed, its posts raised six inches off the floor with a concrete block under each post, occupies a corner of the hut. I remember the incredulous look on Elizabeth Armstrong's face when she told me that she supposed Wandi and her three daughters shared this bed -- and her suggestion that we come prepared. A patchwork quilt covers the bed. On the pillows a black doll lies next to a white one, a single knitted blue blanket tucked around them. A fading photograph of Nelson Mandela smiles at us.
Drew fetches the sleeping bag he brought for Sarah and lays it on the woven mat at the foot of the bed.
Wandi snatches the sleeping bag and thrusts it into Drew's arms. "Take it," she says, frowning.
"It's okay, Wandi," I say. I turn to Sarah. "You love sleeping in your sack, don't you, Sarah?"
"Uh-huh." She fingers the baby elephants following their mother through the jungle on the green cloth. "It's my special sleeping sack. A birthday present from Grandma."
"No good," Wandi says, her dark eyes blazing. "The tokoloshe..."
Tanisha's eyes widen. She screams and runs from the hut.
Drew and I exchange knowing glances. We heard this superstition the day we arrived in Magaliesberg from Drew's road construction site in Pretoria six weeks ago. Something about a little demon that climbs into a child's ear and makes him evil -- if he doesn't sleep high enough to stop the tokaloshe from jumping onto his bed.
I wink at Drew, turn around, and pat Wandi's hand. "It will be all right," I say. I take off my moonstone pendant and hang it around Sarah's neck. "Magic," I say. "The tokoloshe won't bother her now."
Wandi shakes her head but says nothing.
"We'll be back in three days," I remind Sarah. "Be a good girl and mind Wandi."
"I will."
Drew and I exchange kisses and hugs with our daughter and climb back into the Rover.
"Tokoloshe," I say, grinning. "That's almost as silly as not touching the fever tree so you won't get malaria."
"Where do they get this stuff?" Drew asks.
"Couldn't say." I grab my dark glasses to shade my eyes from the rising morning sun. "Word of mouth, I suppose. Superstition passed on from one generation to the next."
On the way to Drew's new road construction site near Johannesburg, we laugh, sing, and practice our Afrikaans. Each of us knows bits of dialects spoken by ethnic groups that work our rose farm, and our Afrikaans is getting better.
One day melts into the next. I love this vast, unspoiled land and its people. Where else can I see zebras drinking at the stream in my own back yard? Herds of impala grazing on the hill? Baby rhinos trudging along beside their mothers? Warthogs foraging among the brush?
That last night together, after Drew's busy day with the job foreman and crew, Drew and I hear the scree, scree, scree of birds and reminisce about South Africa and about our recent visit to Kruger Park.
"South Africa steals your heart when you least expect it," I say.
He holds me close. Wild dogs bark in the distance, and a canopy of stars covers the sky.
When we reach Wandi's hut to pick up Sarah, Wandi's pacing, wringing her hands, and sobbing hysterically. I try to comfort her, but she continues to sob.
"Tokoloshe, tokoloshe," she says, pointing to Sarah.
Drew rolls his eyes. "Let's go," he says.
Sarah sulks and refuses to get into the Land Rover. Tanisha reaches for her hand, but Sarah shoves her backward and clings to Wandi's skirts, a wild look in her blue eyes. I try to reason with her, but she isn't listening. Finally, Drew gently peels her hands away and carries her. My heart pounding, I sit beside Sarah in the back seat as she buries her face in her sleeping bag and cries herself to sleep.
At breakfast, I see a coldness in Sarah's eyes I've never seen before. She talks to herself, but she won't talk to me. While I'm clearing the dishes, she disappears. A loud crash shatters the silence. Sarah stands before her dressing mirror, Drew's hammer still in her hand. Shards of broken glass glisten as sunlight streams through the windows. My stomach lurches. I wish Drew had cancelled his early morning trip to Chicago.
A short time later I reluctantly knock on Elizabeth Armstrong's door. I don't really know Elizabeth that well, but Anthony and Sarah used to be best friends, and I need to talk.
When Elizabeth answers the door, she looks like a Vogue model, with her upswept dark hair and her unlined face. Jeans and a low-cut pink top show off her slender figure. She glances at Sarah, thinking, I suppose, that she has come to play.
"Anthony will be back soon," Elizabeth says. "He's in town with his daddy."
"Can I play outside?" Sarah asks.
I nod, relieved to hear the first words she's spoken all day.
"Elizabeth," I ask, over a steaming cup of coffee, "was Anthony...different when he came home from Wandi's?"
"Different how?"
"I don't know. Distant, maybe. Quiet. Self-absorbed. That sort of thing."
Her brow furrows. The tone of her voice changes. "What's she done, Ann?"
I don't dissemble well. Drew says my face is like an open book, and right now, Elizabeth is reading every line. "Smashed her dressing mirror with a hammer."
Elizabeth's face turns white. Her coffee cup rattles on her saucer.
"Tokoloshe," she whispers.
"What?"
"It's the tokoloshe. Wandi warned us. When we picked up Anthony after our first overnight trip three weeks ago, she was sobbing, distraught. Tokoloshe, she said." Elizabeth shakes her head. "I didn't believe her. I should have listened." She pauses. "Kirby still thinks it's nonsense, but I know better."
"But that's impossi--"
"Let me finish." Her eyes meet mine. "At first I thought Anthony was just being mischievous -- chasing the livestock, scuffling with his friends..." She pauses, takes a deep breath, and continues. "But then he broke all the windows in the barn, and killed..."
"Sarah's kitten?"
Elizabeth nods. "He says he hears voices in his ear -- deep, evil-sounding voices -- telling him what to do."
My stomach churns. I feel like I'm going to be sick. "Elizabeth, where is Anthony, really?"
She stares past me. "Last night he set fire to the chicken coop. Burned it to the ground." Tears gather in her eyes and fall onto her cheeks. "Kirby took him to see Dr. Everett. He's the best psychiatrist in Johannesburg."
Chills run up and down my spine. I've got to get help...now!
"Sarah! Sarah!" I call, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.
She doesn't answer. When I find her, she's in Elizabeth's greenhouse. Broken pots and mangled roses cover the floor.
On the way to Wandi's, I look at my smiling daughter and shudder. What's hiding behind those cold eyes?
When Wandi tries to hug her, Sarah pulls away, sticks out her tongue. Before I can stop her, she sweeps her arms back and forth on Wandi's table, knocking dishes, pots, and baskets to the floor.
Wandi's dark eyes dart from me to Sarah and back again. "You need the sangoma," she says.
"What?"
"The tribal witchdoctor."
Wandi grips Sarah's hand. With the other hand, Sarah grabs a fork and stabs Wandi's arm. Stunned and unable to believe what I have just seen, I follow Wandi and my screaming daughter out the door.
"When she was outside playing with Tanisha," Wandi says, "I hid her sack in top drawer of chest. Slept close to Mama Wandi two nights. Empty arms in middle of third night. Look down. Sarah in sack." She shakes her head. "How did she find it?" Tears run down her cheeks. "So sorry, Mama. So sorry."
The witchdoctor, dressed in his bright ceremonial clothes and wearing several long bead necklaces, greets us at the door of his hut. Inside, South African clay figures line the walls. Some depict mothers and children; some are in animal form; others are a combination of man and beast.
Wandi and the witchdoctor speak in Sotho. He motions me to the other side of the room, while Wandi sits on a grass mat in front of him, holding Sarah tightly on her lap.
I know about the healers and their divining bones. Each item represents an important part of the patient's life -- parents, children, ancestors, good luck and bad, happiness, spirits -- and I wait, my heart pounding in my throat. He means to discover what is wrong with Sarah, and I am terribly afraid.
The healer arranges his divining bones -- shells, a bullet that signifies death, dominoes to determine health or illness, a baboon's jaw, and a piece of hoof -- the animal part that signifies tokoloshe, the evil spirit. He chants and throws the divining bones on the grass mat in front of Wandi and Sarah, like throwing dice on a roulette table.
The hoof and bullet come to rest beside my daughter's feet.
"Tokoloshe," the healer says, his eyes bulging. He dances around her, chanting and sprinkling powder over her head, while she curses him and laughs.
"Take this," he says, thrusting a clay figure into my hands. "Good medicine."
The figure resembles a man, but his torso is distorted. On his belly, which protrudes like a pregnant woman in her final month, is a dull-looking mirror about the size of a silver dollar.
Two days later I stand beside Elizabeth and Kirby as the red Magliesburg dirt swallows up their son.
"When he came home," Elizabeth sobs, "he killed Kirby's snakes -- hacked them to bits. Then he started the tractor. Destroyed the roses..." Her voice trails off.
"The tractor wheel hit a huge stone, lurched, and tipped over," Kirby continues. "Anthony was crushed."
We scatter rose petals on Anthony's grave. Nearby, native farmworkers beat their drums, dance, and sing the tribal songs that will accompany his spirit to God knows where. I shudder. The South Africa that stole my heart is not going to steal my Sarah!
When Sarah goes to sleep, I keep vigil beside her bed again, the witchdoctor's figure clutched tightly in my hands. Outside, the wind gathers the night sounds, wailing, howling. Thunder roars like a hungry lion.
Sarah sits up, her eyes glazed, her face sullen, her voice cold.
"He's calling me." She glares. "Anthony wants you, too, Mama."
She lunges and wraps her arms around my neck. With superhuman strength, she squeezes.
The figure in my hands begins to shake.
"Too late!" Sarah screams. "Too late!"
I struggle to catch my breath. I feel dizzy. Lightheaded.
A bolt of lightning crashes the window, illuminating the room and electrifying the Sotho figure's belly. Sparks fly in every direction. Gathering momentum, they tunnel together, circle the room, and shoot into Sarah's right ear. Light exits the left ear. A putrid, acrid smell fills the room as the tokoloshe sizzles, burns.
Sarah's grip loosens. Like a rag doll, her head flops onto her pillow.
I gather my daughter into my arms. Her blue eyes shining, she smiles, kisses my cheek, and holds me close. Together, we watch the huge orange sun rise above the Magaliesberg Mountains.
~Mary Chandler
© Copyright 2001 by Mary Chandler.
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