For the longest time, Wada lived with her boyfriend Bumo in a small house in Block 3. It was a bachelor pad beautified with laminated bible verses on the wall and seedlings in old yoghurt tubs. Bumo would always promise her that the day he made tenure and secured his fortune, he would marry her, and they’d move into one of those big houses in Phakalane, the ones with the swimming pool and balcony overlooking the well-lit streets. She was convinced it was God’s will for their lives.
“Any time now,” he said one evening while dressing up for a social. “This person has promised me, but he’s still organising the things. And is my shirt ready?”
She swallowed his words like medicine as her stomach swelled with expectations. The sight of it disturbed her as she finished the ironing.
“We are skipping steps,” she said, passing him his ironed shirt. “How will my family receive me this way? I’m a disgrace, babe. Even my employer has decided not to renew my contract.”
“Don’t worry Wada. God will provide for us,” he said before leaving the house for a night out.
Wada worked as a bank teller after graduating. She started dating Bumo during her second year of university. Initially, he was cheating on his previous girlfriend with her, but then he decided to leave her and commit to Wada. He assured her that he had turned a new leaf. Those college days of shagging any curvy lady were behind him, and as a young professional, he must be a man of stature. In moving in together, Bumo was demonstrating the weight of his words, his new leaf. They had a simple arrangement to accompany this new lifestyle, sharing costs and food. Wada was his intended. His non-contractual wife.
As the seed of worry bulged in Wada’s stomach, it became harder for her to work the necessary hours. Sitting was more uncomfortable. Customer’s breaths became more nauseating than before, and worst of all, people were talking.
“See this woman?” they’d say. “She’s one of those that trap men with thatsnare — down there.”
At work, she ignored the gossip, but it grew louder as the seed grew bigger until the day that she had to take leave. And when she came home, she found that her boyfriend had also taken leave, but of her. His stuff was gone like a leaf in winter. Wada was alone. As much as it pained her, she had to admit she had been played. Her mother had warned her about city men, but she took little notice until people saw her stretching blouses. She tried calling Bumo, but there was no answer. She sent messages, but they were not received, neither by his family nor his friends. She sent word through her colleagues, but they could not find the man. She asked her church to pray, but God was silent. Bumo had vanished.
One day, in desperation, she spoke to the rocks at Kgale Hill, the ones that overlooked the city. Surely, they might know, for who can keep a secret from the rocks that hear, see and feel all? But even they could not answer her. She wept and gave up her hunt. That is when the answers came. The pensive rocks told the doves, and the doves told the sparrows, and the sparrows told the flies, and the flies told her while she wept in her bed as the debts started to rise. Her ‘boyfriend’ had made tenure and had bought a house in Phakalane, and it did have a balcony that overlooked the well-lit streets, but the woman he was with, the one carrying the coveted ring, was another young girl like herself, without the weight of worry and expectation. All of this was confirmed when her sisters in Christ came to tend to her, assisting her in the pregnancy.
“These suspicions are true. We saw him, and we saw her, and they saw us, and they smiled as if the universe conspired in helping them find each other,” they said.
“And did you tell him of me and our situation?” She asked, placing her hand on her stomach.
“Ehh mma¹,” they said with grave faces. “He said he’s never known of a Wada. Straight-faced. And if he did know of such a Wada, the one of which we speak, he’d say, ‘May she go on in God’s peace’.”
Wada was bitter, but it was not in her nature to spite the man’s scrotum to produce dead or deadly or dying children. She must forgive as Christ has forgiven, and what a load this was on her heart. It would require a miracle. More importantly, there were bills that grew with her worries since Bumo was not there to cover those expenses that were once shared, especially the rent and utilities. Her church just kept her fed and her home clean. But Wada would not go home or tell her family of her state of precarity. Part of moving south was to escape her mother’s house.
It was not long until Wada was evicted, finding a smaller house in Old Naledi, which was a real downgrade from what she had in Block 3. Her sisters in Christ helped her find it. A single room with a badly installed kitchen and bathroom. No yard or fencing. No burglar bars or drinkable tap water. Her mother phoned as usual: “Bumo? Oh, he is hustling as always. Ahh, moving, ehh, here is cheaper. Visit? No need. Everything is good. God is good.” That was until the worries of her missing boyfriend broke her water, and its gushing landed her in Princess Marina Hospital. Then Wada’s emergency contact received a call.
“Mmagwe Wada², your daughter is in labour!” The nurse said on the phone.
“Wareng³,” she shouted back.
Wada’s mother took the next bus to the capital and arrived at the hospital only to find her daughter with a little girl burping on her shoulder.
“Why didn’t you tell me? All this time, I thought you were prospering, but I guess you were prospering in other ways,” she said.
“It’s not like that mama. He promised…” Wada said until interrupted.
“I don’t want to hear about any of these promises. Clearly, you are still a child, and now I must look after two children.”
Wada’s mother, Nkuku⁴, took matters into her own hands. She moved to Gaborone, quickly sorting her affairs out in Maun. Somehow, she found the money to do all of this, though she was never much of a businesswoman and had raised Wada single-handedly. Nkuku had her ways to provide, ways that alarmed most folks. She was a traditional healer.
Soon, Wada was discharged from hospital and living with her mother and new-born girl in Old Naledi. For the first three weeks, Nkuku banned her from the outside, ordering her to stay with her daughter, Amogelang.
“Mama,” Wada would start.
“It’s tradition. You must stay inside,” Nkuku ordered.
It was a tight space that they lived in. This led to a lot of fighting and disappearances. The fighting sprang from the pacing and placing in the home.
“This should go here,” Wada would say.
“No, it’s better if it is there,” Nkuku would say.
“Please don’t bring your muti into this house,” Wada would beg.
Nkuku would disagree. “How else do we protect ourselves if we don’t have money for dogs or private security?”
“Jesus is my security,” Wada would claim.
“And where was he in your hour of need?”
“Heela⁵, it’s one thing to insult me and my choices, but it’s another thing to insult my God!” Wada would shout.
“There are greater mercies than keeping a child. That’s all I am saying,” Nkuku would retort.
“Yet you had me by yourself.”
“And apparently, it was a mistake,” Nkuku would say, while feeding her baby’s baby her formula.
As for the vanishings, the few pots and pans Wada owned would walk. Other times, it was the food in the house. Was it Nkuku moving them, or was it Wada? Somehow, things left the house like a bad omen. The strangest part though, is that the neighbours would return them saying, ‘Thanks’. Other times, they’d ask their neighbours to borrow items that seemed to look like theirs. Wada would renounce the devil’s hand in her life, and Nkuku would warn her not to throw axes at the moon. It would result in her destruction. But this never stopped Wada. She was adamant that no weapon formed against her would prosper.
A few years passed. Amogelang was five-years old and quite the extrovert, talking to everyone she could: “Why this, why that, how come this and how come that?”
Wada’s state of affairs had also improved. She found another job with an employer considerate to her situation. It came with a company car. She was the secretary to an expat’s humanitarian organisation. Nkuku would babysit while she was at work. And, by means Wada would never ask, people would come to the house making peace offerings. Sometimes they were small — other times they were large. It was enough to move into a house in Mogoditshane. It was no Phakalane, but at least, it wasn’t Old Naledi. They had their own beds instead of sharing. They had a yard and a fence, though not massive, but she was grateful that she was not alone. Jesus, she was convinced, had sent her helpers each step of the way.
“His ways are not our ways. His thoughts are not our thoughts. Perhaps mother’s arrival is a mercy from above to teach me long suffering and gratitude,” she’d think to herself.
At church, her family in Christ cheered her on, teasing the idea that maybe God is using this circumstance to save Nkuku.
“Think about it,” said a sister in Christ after the service, “as little Amo’ came into your life, so did your mother, and with it, there was life where there was once death and debt.”
“But we are always fighting about you-know-what,” Wada complained as Amogelang nudged at her folds of her dress, wanting to go home.
“Remember — ‘the light shines in the darkness but the darkness cannot overcome it’. We’ll keep praying for your family.”
The prayers were heard, at least partially. The day came when Bumo appeared outside the house, wanting to see his child. Wada was speechless at the sight of him. His crooked nature had grown on him, as his neck was hunched like a hyena and his flat stomach was rounded like an ox before the abattoir. Not a day had passed that she did not think of this moment, but now, it had come when her desperation had been alleviated, and her sense of self-worth was restored. She was not all too sure what to say. After all, he vanished from her life without a trace and then feigned ignorance when confronted. The greater insult was this: how did he know where to find her? She had searched high and low to no avail, yet he found her with no distress other than guilty bags, sagging beneath his eyes.
Nkuku’s presence materialised behind Wada. It whispered, “Reparations.” Wada stood her ground and made her demands.
“After I see some school fee money and child support, maybe then I might let you see this child,” she said.
“Babe… uhm, I mean Wada. She is my child, too.”
“Is she really? You tell me…papa,” she said with fists on her hips.
Bumo scratched his bald scalp. He removed a thick brown envelope from his blazer jacket and extended it towards her.
“Please,” he begged.
Wada was giddy, clasping the envelope until she opened it and saw a note addressed to ‘Mmagwe Wada’ about a burning blistering patchwork of lumps around his manhood.
“Scum! Get out of here,” she screamed.
“Please Wada, at least let me…”
“Voetsek!⁶”
By the time Nkuku actually came to the door, holding Amo’ by the hand, all she saw was a cloud of dust behind Bumo’s Toyota Fortuner.
“Mama! I can’t believe you,” Wada said, turning in her direction.
“What’s wrong mama?” Amogelang interjected, looking at the two towering figures face off.
“I can’t believe YOU! He’s a well paying client,” Nkuku said while ignoring Amo’.
The two started a heated argument, and Amogelang slipped away, as if her presence was getting in the way. She’d do as she liked. Since it was the evening, she couldn’t go into the complex, so she went to Nkuku’s room to play with the shrubs she’d been learning about, the ones with supernatural properties. When the fight between Wada and her mother stopped, and Wada went looking for Amo’, she found her doing grave things, things only Nkuku could have taught her. She was tossing bones on a mat, deciphering their secrets.
“The spirits look favourably on her,” Nkuku said, frightening and provoking Wada. She went to sit beside Amo’ on the cool tile floor. Amo happily complied as Nkuku continued the lesson she had during Bumo’s arrival.
“The spirits like me,” Amo’ repeated.
“Very much. So much so that they’ll gobble you up,” Nkuku said, tickling Amo into delirious laughter.
The sight offended Wada: her baby girl, enamoured by dark things. Nkuku pulled out a tin box from under the bed. She removed her special collection of herbs, shrubs and roots, showing each of them to Amo’. Wada watched in disbelief as Nkuku tested Amo’.
“This one wards off bad men — this one tames them — and that one makes them fall in love,” Amogelang said as she separated the various herbs and twigs arranged around her.
“Correct! What a good girl you are,” Nkuku said, patting her.
Amo’ saw her mother’s face. It was heavy and saddened, making Amo downcast too. Wada retreated to the kitchen to cook dinner. She thought to herself: “Maybe it’s time that mother moved out.” Meanwhile, Amo’ was still talking to Nkuku. She looked at the herbs and artefacts again, having had a bright idea and asked, “Which one will make mama and gran-gran stop fighting?”
Nkuku winked, “Be careful what you wish for. The spirits always demand something in return.”
“I don’t care. Mama says that spirits are scared of Jesus. I just call him then they run.”
“Oh, do they now?” She said before laughing.
Amo’ made a cross with her fingers and aimed at granny.
The weeks went on. Household items stopped vanishing, but the fights continued. Amo’ would run away to other parts of the complex. She soon became the neighbourhood’s child. Some would feed her whereas others would play with her, particularly the children. Some men would try to prey on her and stir affections, but somehow, each of these men that would hold her hand or place her on their lap would suddenly feel ill. Rashes of pus and blood would plague them in their darkest gardens — others would find pains in their chest fearing death. All, at some point, would come to Wada’s house with guilt offerings. Amo’ would greet them excitedly, but they’d never return her warmth but smile like a dog before its beating.
“Please,” they’d say, grovelling before Nkuku.
A sip from her calabash would relieve them of their affliction, but Nkuku was never happy to comply until she saw folded purple notes or shiny gemstones in a brown envelope.
Wada then would lash out at her mother, “Didn’t’ I tell you to supervise her?”
Nkuku would say, “My eyes are always watching. No one can lay a finger on her other than me.”
Wada would try to return the envelope, but the sinners would run away, begging her not to destroy their homes more than they already have.
At night, Amo’ would see her mother crying. Wada begged God to forgive her for the wickedness in her house. She’d pray for deliverance. Sometimes, Amo’ would join and also pray against the darkness. It was in these hours that Wada would ask Amo’ how she felt about Nkuku and would soon hear uncanny stories that would make her panic like the lady who turned into a lion or the thokolosi that stole her niece’s soul one cold night. Wada would warn Amo’ to keep her distance from Nkuku, but the light in her eyes said otherwise when expressing her dream of transforming into a lion.
On one particular night after saying her bedtime prayers on her rug, Wada revealed her intentions to Amo’, “Maybe, it’s time that granny goes home. Don’t you think so dear?”
“But she is home!” Amo’ exclaimed, clenching the duvet.
“To Maun. You can visit her during the holidays.” She said, rubbing Amo’s back.
“No! I want gran-gran here with us.” Amo’ stood up. Her eyes were red.
“Darling, you need to understand that your gran-gran and I don’t get along, and I don’t think she’s a good influence on you.” Wada said with eyes as red as her daughters.
Amo’ cried. “Mama. Why so mean? Gran-gran does it all for us. The men, they do nothing to me. Just offerings. I’ll be extra good. Let her stay. Let her stay.” Her chest heaved as she distanced herself from her mother.
This broke Wada’s heart. She relented and regretted ever letting Nkuku back into her life, crawling into bed defeated. Amo’, however, in the silence of the darkness, snuck into Nkuku’s room where she found her smoking. Amo’ told her all about Wada’s recent prayers: how she felt guilty about fornicating with Bumo, how she felt guilty about profiting off her mother’s witchcraft and how she longed for her household to walk in the light of Christ. None of this surprised Nkuku.
“Gran-gran, please stop fighting with mama,” Amogelang said, tugging at Nkuku’s nightie. “Mama is always crying. I want a happy mommy. I’ll be very good.”
“Oh sweetheart! You don’t understand what you are asking for,” Nkuku said, smirking.
“Please gran-gran. I’ll eat all my morogo⁷ too! Even the one in the calabash. Use your powers for good,” Amogelang pleaded, inhaling the smoke.
“Changing another’s heart requires a strong offering to the spirits. The usual medicine simply will not do,” Nkuku said, snubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray. “Off to bed now, before I get upset.”
The next day, Wada went to work, dropping off Amo’ at school. As usual, it was Nkuku who would collect her at lunchtime, taking her back to the house in Mogoditshane. However, this time, Wada had an eerie feeling. She knew Amo’ liked to run off and play with the neighbours. She knew that strange men would try to touch or groom her, but so far, she had evaded these evils. What if a greater evil befell her daughter? What if a more malicious agent of Satan overpowered mother’s charms? She called her mother to check up on Amogelang.
“She’s at home playing,” Nkuku said unamused.
“Please let me talk to her,” Wada urged.
Nkuku summoned Amo’ and she came to the cellphone.
“I’m OK mama.”
“Just be good, ok. Don’t talk to strangers, especially men. Don’t wander too far either.”
“I know mama. I’ll be very good for you. I even ate all of gran-gran’s morogo.”
“Ok darling. Mama loves you always.”
Wada was relieved but not at ease. The four o’clock traffic into Mogoditshane was an eternal stretch. She looked at the sun and saw its setting. The sky was pink, the hot air blistering. Her throat was dry. She decided to be like the kombi drivers who drove on the unofficial third lane of the dual carriageway, namely the dirt next to the potholed road, hooting at hawkers and herders and pedestrians to overtake traffic. It was twilight. Her Honda Fit kicked up dust. As she neared the complex’s gate, all she saw was silhouettes of the people that lived around. No one recognisable. When she exited the car, the hot wind cooled.
“I’m home!” Wada yelled.
“Welcome back, how was your day?” Nkuku asked, fixing a drink in the kitchen.
“Where’s Amo?” Wada demanded.
“No greeting. That’s not how I raised you.”
Wada’s eyes looked like the pink sky. Her lips were drier than the soil.
“She’s out,” Nkuku said plainly.
“Where’s out? I want to see my baby. I need to see my baby,” Wada exclaimed.
“Am I her keeper? You know she likes to play around the complex,” Nkuku replied.
“What did I say about supervising her?” Wada retorted.
“What did I say about my eyes? No one can lay a finger on her other than me. I’ve told you this too many times,” Nkuku said. “Here, have something to drink. Relax a little. Today was very hot.”
Without question, Wada gulped the bitter iced tea, which raked her throat. She then burst onto the streets and called out to Amo’. There was no answer other than the cry of chickens in their coop and the howl of dogs at the hour of feeding.
“Amo!” She yelled.
The neighbours soon came to her, telling her that she was at this person’s house, then that person’s house, and then with Nkuku, and then out again.
“A-MO-GE-LANG,” she yelled as darkness befell the neighbourhood. Her stomach grumbled. Her fingers tremored.
There was no light other than the torches of the neighbours that joined in the search for Amo’. Six o’clock turned into eight o’clock, and Amo’ was nowhere to be found until the police came with their sniffer dogs. Wada presented a piece of her clothing, and the dogs went running. Wada, to the police’s amazement, kept up with the dogs. Everyone followed the chase except for the elderly who stayed at home praying for their success. The scent went into a thick bush that some never knew was there, and others pretended to not know. The dogs started digging under a thorn tree. What seemed like mud came flying out.
There was a howl and a loud weeping once the flashlight shone into the secret of the hole. There was a small bloody body. The police carefully excavated it. It was naked, barely human in form. The head was smashed, the brain was missing, and the genitals were gone. He paused. He warned the people to stand back and have the mother identify the body. Wada gasped, lifting her baby to herself, and everyone knew what had happened. They cried and grabbed rocks of all sizes, running back towards Wada’s house in a fury.
“Sangoma!⁸”
The police ran with the mob, not to join in the stoning but to protect the culprit. They apprehended Nkuku, taking stones to the face, arms and back and seated her in the car. To their amazement, Nkuku was unscathed.
The young mothers in the mob comforted Wada. They tried to calm her, as she burst out with emotions, but her utterances were so deep that no one understood what she was saying. They thought she was speaking in tongues to God. Then she started to tremble and regurgitate into the earth. The mob thought the demons were flying out of her because she seemed like she was manifesting. Others believed it was the trauma of the moment. The village pastor was also amongst the mob. He tried to pray for her, but she clung to her bloodied, muddied baby for dear life and demanded that he revive her.
“Moruti⁹! Pray for her! Like Elijah and Lazarus. Make her rise from this sleep,” Wada begged.
“Mma¹⁰,” the pastor said.
“Please man of God. Your book says that faith as small as a mustard seed can move a mountain. Surely you must have that much faith for my baby,” Wada continued.
“I am only a man, madam, not God.”
“But Jesus said, Jesus said. We’ll do greater works than him. Pray!” She pestered, forcing the child onto him.
The pastor received the mutilated child from Wada whose resemblance to Amo’ was so far from his memory and mustard seed faith. He asked God to return her spirit and flesh. But neither flesh nor spirit quivered or quaked. He cried out as the weight of eyes and flashlights scorched him.
“Wake up Amogelang!” He declared.
Her body got stiffer, yet he shook her in hopes of life returning to her.
“Liar! Child of the devil!” Wada screamed as she saw the manhandling of her baby.
“How dare you mock me this way! How dare you insult us from the pulpit.”
“Mma,” a mother said, “He is a vessel of God’s spirit, but it is up to the Spirit of God to decide on intervening.”
“Decide? Only by a man’s hand did my child die! Surely, God cannot deny my request when the cause is as wicked as this. He cannot look at Satan and say — amen!”
Wada marched towards her house with the corpse in her arms, catching a glimpse of her mother from the blue lights swirling on the vehicle. Nkuku was smiling despite the stoning and yelling. Nothing could touch her, but the police begged for mercy as they took the pelting, dripping with blood. When Wada saw all this, she looked to Amogelang again and had an oddly appealing thought — deliverance — this is another life, her new leaf. As if in a trance, she stared in Nkuku’s direction who seemed to be chanting something. The sirens sounded, and before long, gran-gran drove off into the night. As the blue strobes vanished, Wada’s smile soured, and her dread returned.
Upon investigation for their report, the two constables asked Mmagwe Wada, “Why do such a wicked thing, and to your own granddaughter?”
“You know why!”
“Power,” the one officer muttered. “But power to do what?”
“As if you’d ever understand,” Nkuku said, “We all have our own reasons, some are just better concealed than others. Some appear more noble than others, but in the end, it is always for power.”
To this day, Mmagwa Wada still lives in Mogoditshane. By divination, she escaped the noose of justice and lives among us in the decadent city of Gaborone. The police released her, frightened of her powers, and the court of law never brought her case to trial. It stands in a dusty archive, the inked pages bleaching with exposure to each new day’s light.
- Ehh mma: yes ma’am
2. Mmagwe Wada: Mother of Wada
3. Wareng: What are you saying?
4. Nkuku: Grandmother
5. Heela: hey! (warning)
6. Voetsek: go away! (offensive)
7. Morogo: spinach
8. Sangoma: witch doctor
9. Moruti: pastor
10. Mma: mother or madam
First published in the Kalahari Review
Samuel Rubadiri 