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I keep my mouth shut, trying to find the most diplomatic way to tackle this. It’s obvious he knows about Dad’s work with the Salinger Institute – they must have called him to find out whether he’d be interested in getting involved. I take a deep breath to diffuse my rising anger. One unreasonable relative I can handle, but two?
“Ah. He’s struggling, isn’t he?” Ntatemogolo chuckles. “He’s a proud man, that Ray Bennett.”
“So are you,” I mutter under my breath.
“What was that?”
I sigh. “I was just wondering how you know he’s struggling.”
He shakes the ash off the cigarette and takes another long pull. “I ran into Dr Whitman from the Salinger Institute the other day. Nice lady. She mentioned a project your father was working on and seemed surprised that I hadn’t heard from him. You see, she doesn’t know we’re connected.”
A lot of people don’t know, and Dad and Ntatemogolo are happy to keep it that way. I take another deep breath. I’m dying to yell at my grandfather, but he doesn’t take kindly to kids who talk back. “Why didn’t you offer to help?”
He raises a sparse eyebrow at me. “I don’t go offering my services where they’re not wanted, my girl. If he needs my assistance, he knows what to do.”
“But he hates the idea of asking you for anything!”
“Yes, because he’s a fool,” he snaps. “He thinks he knows everything, with his biology! I was already studying the ways of my people when he came into this world, and he thinks he knows better?”
I really don’t feel like hearing this right now. As annoyed as I am with Dad, I’m even more annoyed with Ntatemogolo. You’d think someone with his insight would be less petty. I clear my throat. “Ntatemogolo, maybe you should reach out to him. I’m sure he’d be happy to accept your help. Who knows – this could be a chance for the two of you to put your differences aside and do something great. And maybe this project will give Dad a better understanding of our world.”
He shakes his head. “Your father will never understand. He’s not like Dr Whitman – she’s interested in learning about how other people do things. Your father thinks there is only one way, and he can’t see beyond that.”
“But maybe if you just give him a chance – ”
“I will not work with someone who doesn’t respect me,” he interrupts with a note of finality.
Fine. I’m sick of mediating between the two of them. If my mother had lived, maybe things would have been different. Maybe they would have found a way to get along. Maybe Dad wouldn’t have been so threatened by my relationship with Ntatemogolo. But she’s dead, and I’m not a miracle worker.
I take out my phone and glance pointedly at the time. “I have to be home by seven.”
He nods and drops the cigarette on the floor, grinding it beneath his shoe. “Let’s go inside.”
I pick up my bag and follow him into his sparsely furnished house. Beyond the bare living room is a corridor, and the first room is where Ntatemogolo does his work. We call it the consultation room. The curtains are always drawn and he keeps the light off. I glance at the big chest in the corner as I lower myself onto the reed mat in the middle of the floor. The chest contains all his “tools”, and also the objects we’ve been using to practice. Usually Ntatemogolo likes to cleanse everything after use, but he keeps a few things from his consultations to test me with.
He opens the chest and removes a goatskin bag, which he deposits on the mat in front of me. He sits cross-legged opposite me and opens the bag. I watch him close his eyes and mumble a few words as he holds his hands above the bag, then he falls silent, takes several deep, steady breaths, and then opens his eyes. His energy has shifted now – he’s clear-headed and objective and ready to work.
I take a moment to get into the zone. I don’t have to be particularly calm to read the objects – if the energy around them is strong enough I can pick it up no matter what – but if I’m not careful to distance myself, I end up carrying around other people’s baggage for days. In one of our earlier sessions I held a plastic cup used by a woman who had been killed by her boyfriend. The woman’s family had come to my grandfather because they believed her spirit was haunting their home. I spent the next hour crouched over the toilet bowl, retching. Ntatemogolo has since promised to keep me away from that sort of thing. I want to improve my skills, but I have my limits.
He loosens the drawstring and opens the bag, then reaches in and pulls out a folded piece of paper torn from a book. Even in the dark I can see there’s writing on it. I raise my eyebrows. Paper is difficult. Ceramics, wood, metal and stone are the easiest materials to read, followed by natural fabrics, followed by synthetics and plastic. Paper gives me trouble because I always approach it with my mind instead of my gift.
He hands it to me. “Slowly, Connie. Don’t cheat.”
My first instinct is to unfold it and search for the words that must be on it, because that’s what you do with paper – you write on it, you read it. I have to stop myself, take a breath, and change the way I look at it. It’s not a letter or a page from a book. It’s an object like all the others, like a cup or a piece of cloth. In the semi-dark room the white of the paper looks dull grey. I’m trying to look with my other eyes, but my head keeps getting in the way, telling me there’s nothing to see because the paper is blank.
I drop the paper so my frustration won’t taint it.
“It’s OK,” my grandfather says gently. “Try again.”
I close my eyes as I hold out my hand, so the words on the page won’t distract me. The page is small, just a little larger than my palm. For a moment I feel the usual resistance, but I push it aside and focus on the texture of the paper against my fingers. And then I sense it – anxiety. It starts as a small, nagging twitch in my stomach and then blossoms, spreading through my torso, making my heart race and my muscles knot up. I drop the paper and open my eyes, gasping.
“Well?”
“He’s worried about something.” I reach up to rub my shoulder, which suddenly feels like I’ve been lifting cement blocks. “Very worried. Panicked, tense. He’s been worried for a long time, too – it’s making him sick. His body is…” I pause to find the right words. “Fighting itself.” Now my gift takes a step back and my intellect takes over. “Is he dying?”
Ntatemogolo laughs. “You’ve never done that before,” he says in delight, leaning forward to pick up the small page. “You made a deduction based on what you felt. Usually you just feel and leave the thinking out of it. What made you switch?”
I shrug, still tense. “It just happened. It seemed…I don’t know…necessary. Am I right, though? He has some kind of terminal illness?”
“He does. And yes, he is a very anxious man – he always has been.” He beams at me. “You’re getting very good at picking up gender signals, too.”
I return the smile, feeling rather proud of myself.
He looks at his watch. “That’s enough for today. You did very well, my girl. You finally broke through your paper barrier.”
He’s right – I made progress. I’m pleased, but my sense of achievement is ruined by a nagging concern. “Thank you, Ntatemogolo.” I hesitate before speaking again. “Will you please do something for me?”
“Of course. Unless it has to do with your father.”
Eish. I wish he’d leave the mind-reading to me. I get to my feet with a sigh while he empties the bag in preparation for purification. “Never mind. I’ll see you next week.”
His phone buzzes. I jump at the sound; usually he leaves it in the living room when we’re practising so it doesn’t disturb us. He glances at the message and inhales sharply.
“Bad news?” I ask.
“No – just the opposite.” His teeth are tinged green by the light of the phone. “It might be the news I was hoping for.” He gets up, suddenly in a frightful hurry. “Connie, I have to go out of town for some time.”
“Right now?” I follow him out of the consultation room and linger in the doorway as he rushes into his bedroom.
“Yes.” His voice is muffled. “Something very urgent has come up. I must see to it immediately.”
I shrug. I’m used to his frequent trips. If he’s not called away to help solve a magical mystery, he’s off doing research or investigating some unexplained occurrence. “OK. How long will you be gone?”
“I am not sure.” He emerges from the room clutching a duffel bag. “You’ll be fine?”
I nod. His eyes are shining. It really must be good news. I’m curious now, but I don’t dare ask. There’s a lot he shares with me, but most of the work he does for clients is confidential.
“Good girl. Keep practising, and close the gate properly on your way out. Oh, and one more thing. Remember that birthday gift I gave you?”
I frown. “The chest?”
“The beaded ankle bracelet. The very old one.”
I nod.
“This might be a good time to start wearing it.”
I open my mouth to ask what he means but he shoos me away, eager to prepare for his trip. I leave him to his packing. In the corridor I reach into my pocket for my phone. It’s almost six-thirty. Dad’s probably not home, but Rakwena’s supposed to come over after work and I don’t want to make him wait.
I hurry through the living room, knocking against the small table on my way to the door and upsetting the book lying on it. The book slides half off the table and I lean over to push it back into place. The second I touch it I feel a tingle. Not just any tingle, either. I stare at the book, then pick it up and hold it in both hands. A dull surge of anxiety moves through me, then fades. The tingle is gone but I know I felt it, and I’d know it anywhere. Rakwena was here recently, and it wasn’t a social call.
I take a closer look at the book. It’s an old, red leather-bound volume called A Meeting of Minds. I put it back and consider confronting my grandfather, but I know if he intended to tell me Rakwena was here he would have done it already. I head outside, closing the front door and the gate behind me.
This isn’t the first time I’ve had the feeling that Rakwena and Ntatemogolo are keeping something from me. From the start it was clear that Ntatemogolo knew Rakwena and didn’t trust him. I let it go. Ntatemogolo knows most of the gifted in town, as many of them come to him for help with their powers. I assumed Rakwena must have done the same, but now I’m not so sure.
Something was bothering Rakwena and he came to my grandfather for help. Is he planning to clue me in, or is this another mystery I’m supposed to ignore?
***
Rakwena and I lounge on the sofa with my Setswana books, while he tries to help me with my appalling sentence construction. I can’t concentrate. I’m trying not to be pushy and nosy but I can’t help it. I’ve given him ample opportunity to confide in me, and he hasn’t.
“Rakwena.”
“Hmm?”
“Why did you go to see my grandfather?”
His gaze remains fixed on the page. “Did he tell you I went to see him?”
“He doesn’t tell me anything, and neither do you.” I lean over to snatch the book from under his nose. “Talk to me. I know you’re worried about something. What is it?”
He leans back in the sofa with a puzzled frown. “I touched something. That’s how you know.” The frown lines smooth out and he looks at me. “The book.”
I look into his eyes, but as usual he’s got his barrier up and there’s no way I’m getting in. “It would be nicer if you had just told me.”
“I didn’t want to upset you.”
If he were anyone else I’d be able to see the wheels turning in his head. I’d be able to tell whether he was cooking up a story for me or searching for the right words to frame the truth. But Rakwena never lets his guard down, so I have to take every word he says on faith.
“Why would I be upset?”
He takes a moment to reply. “Your grandfather and I are worried about Thuli. I know you think he’s lost interest, but I don’t.”
Relief flows through me. It’s not some terrible secret after all – it’s just Rakwena looking out for me, as usual. “He’s not going to come near me as long as you’re around,” I remind him. “I can handle Thuli. I’m not afraid of him anymore.”
He pulls me closer. “You think you’re some superhero now?”
“Almost.” I kiss the side of his face. “Relax. Thuli is going down one of these days. We don’t have to worry about him.” I hesitate before asking, “So that’s all? I mean…you’re not worried about your…”
“Father?” His jaw tenses. “No news is good news. Hopefully he really is dead.”
I decide not to comment. There’s no love lost between Rakwena and his father and I know better than to press the issue. The one parent I can talk about is his mother. Mmabatho Langa is in a psychiatric facility in South Africa, and Rakwena goes to visit her all the time. She’s the only relative he speaks to; his maternal aunts have practically disowned him and his father’s side of the family disappeared when his father “died”.
“How’s your mother?”
“She’s OK. I’m going to see her next weekend. Can we do some work now?”
“Sure.” I open the book.
***
Friday comes way too quickly. It’s the last day of term so we’re in civvies, which means jeans and sneakers for me. Civvies day at Syringa is like the opening day of Fashion Week – most of the kids use it as an opportunity to flash their favourite brand names at the minority middle-class students. It’s supposed to be intimidating – a girl can only stomach so much Guess before she flees to the toilet in tears to cut the label off her Mr Price shirt.
Fortunately for me, I’ve never been interested in clothes. I’m a fickle teenager. Why pay a fortune for a pair of jeans I won’t even want in a few months? Lebz, on the other hand, is a fashion slave. She turns up in skinny jeans that look as though they’ve been painted on, a flimsy top that barely covers her bra, a leather jacket, heels and a handbag so obviously expensive I can’t even look at it without feeling queasy.
“I thought you were trying not to spend so much money this year,” I admonish her, as she slides onto the bench.
“I didn’t buy it – yoh!” She laughs. “I don’t get that much pocket money. Papa got it for me in Italy. He got shoes for Rita – they’re so beautiful! I’m wearing them to the party tonight.”
Wiki and I exchange glances. Wiki’s folks, like mine, are in the lower income bracket of the Syringa class system. As far as they’re concerned, sending us to the best school in town is enough – if we want to keep up with our classmates, we should get jobs. Lebz’s dad works like a fiend making bucketloads of money, and then spoils his kids rotten to make up for all the time he spends away. It’s a good thing her mother is sensible, or Lebz would have turned out like Kelly.
“Just wait till you guys see Kencer for yourselves,” she goes on.
“Kencer?” Wiki and I chorus.
“Kelly and Spencer,” Lebz explains.
I snicker. “It’s not very flattering.”
“I know it sounds like cancer, but Botho started it and now it’s stuck. So? Are we meeting at my place for the party or what?”
“I’m not coming,” Wiki announces.
“What?” Lebz and I whip around to stare at him in dismay.
“You know how I feel about parties,” he groans. “It’s the end of term! I want to stay home and watch a movie or read…”
“You can’t miss it – Kelly throws the best parties!” says Lebz.
“And what about me?” I pitch in. “Lebz is going to disappear the minute we walk in, and I’ll be all by myself in the jungle! You can’t abandon me!”
“She’s right,” says Lebz, without shame.
Wiki sighs. “Fine. But I’m bringing my laptop.”
“Good! Mogapi’s busy today, so he can’t give us a ride, but I can ask my mother,” says Lebz.
“Rakwena will drop us off.”
Lebz raises an eyebrow. “He’s gate-crashing?”
I glare at her. “No, but he’s going to drop me off, so we might as well meet at my house around seven and he’ll take us.”
“Hm!” Lebz purses her lips. “Nice to have a mobile boyfriend, isn’t it?”
The sound of the bell saves her from my stinging retort. All through the day Lebz rambles on about the party, her hair, her outfit – but I can’t stop thinking about Thuli. Despite what I said to Rakwena, there’s a little part of me that is afraid.
Auntie Lydia is cooking when I walk into the house later, and the aroma of roasting chicken fills the air.
