Madumo. - Madumo: a man bewitched

This book made available by the Internet Archive.

A NOTE TO THE READER

In this book I tell a story, arising from a decade-long friendship, about a young man named Madumo struggling to free himself from the curse of witchcraft in Soweto, South Africa, at the close of the twentieth century. It is based upon our shared experiences and taped conversations; interviews and discussions with others; journals and letters (both Madumos and mine); together with my own observations, recollections, and speculations leavened with a good measure of gossip deriving from times in Soweto since 1990not to mention books I have read and things Ive forgotten. These materials have here been edited and translated, shaped and reshaped, in an effort to present an accessible narrative for an English-speaking reader.

Although the book had its origins in Madumos own desire to make a case study of his plight, the result is nothing of the sort. Indeed, Madumo was rather surprised when he saw what Id made of his story, for he said he was expecting more of a documentary, something more academic. I was pleased, however, that he adjudged my tale a true story despite the bits of fabrication (his term) supplied here and there to appetize the reader. I present this book, then, not as a scientific treatise nor as a transcript from a court of law, but rather as a story, particular and personal, drawn from life. Of course, names, dates, and telltale details of scene and action have been changed in an effort to protect the privacy of the people concerned. It is a true story, nonetheless, and I have made my best efforts to make it seem so. I hope that none of these alterations will seem like errors or injustice to my friends.

vii

WHERES MADIMO?

No one answered when I tapped at the back door of Madumos home on Mphahlele Street a few days after my return to Soweto, so I pushed the buckling red door in a screeching grind of metal over concrete and entered calling, Hallo? From behind the bedroom door to the left of the kitchen Madumos sister, Ouma, peered out, her head wrapped in a faded blue towel. She greeted me and gestured towards the sitting room before returning to her bath.

I perched myself on the edge of the large overstuffed cranberry-colored velvet sofa, still sheathed in its clear plastic cover, and waited. The old four-room matchbox house, an icon of oppression in apartheid-era Soweto, had been recently extended by pushing out the front wall and installing floor-to-ceiling windows in place of the old metal-framed glass panels. In each of the two windows, large framed photographs of the Bishops Lekganyane, the founder of the Zion Christian Church and his son and successor, faced out to the front yard, greeting anyone who ventured past the heavy steel gate with a sign of the

M A D U M O

power and piety protecting the house. A new display cabinet, pale pink and glossy, was stocked to overflowing with bottles of generic spirits and ersatz liqueurs rarely tasted in these beerdrinking parts. A family of china cats were nestled amongst the liquor. On the kitchen table, splaying perilously on the yellow plastic surface, a dozen or so bottles of Carling Black Label beer were racked in a rickety wooden wine stand. Why so much liquor in a house of Zionists, I wondered as I sank back into the crackling plastic, since Zionists are pledged to abstain?

When I last visited this house, two years ago, the place was submerged in a sea of hand-crocheted lace doilies. Hundreds of them in all sizes and patterns covered every available surface. In the corner, freshly laundered doilies had been stacked in a neatly tapering tower nearly two feet high. The mother of this house was a great one for doilies. I used to feel self-conscious about walking over them in my heavy boots until Madumo told me not to worry: Theres nowhere to walk without walking on them, he said, so walk. In the kitchen doilies covered the coal stove, the electric hotplate, the table, and every inch of cutting space: You cant fry an egg without folding fifty doilies first, Madumo used to complain. His mother had been crocheting them for years. She was not a well womansugar diabetes, plus high blood, and nervesor so I was told at the time. Piling up her doilies day by day, she awaited her husbands return. The father of her family never did return, though the pile of doilies grew and grew.

Wheres Madumo? I asked when his sister finally emerged from her room carrying a blue plastic basin full of sudsy water to the drain outside.

Hes no more staying here, Ouma replied, glancing down across the delicate balance of her basin to where I floated on the sofa. Her manner was arch and offhand, habitually disdainful in the manner of a woman who knows shes considered proud but is confirmed in her belief, as she takes an afternoon bath, that she has much to feel proud about.

I heard you chased him away, I said.

M A D U M O

No, we didn't chase him. He just left after our mother passed away. He was doing funny things. Too much ..

I followed her out to the tap in the backyard, where she proceeded to tell me a convoluted tale of Madumos misdeeds. I couldn't follow all the details. She spoke as if recalling a malicious private pleasure. It seemed my friend had borrowed money from a relative to buy counterfeit banknotes and then failed to repay the debt. Six thousand rands, she said. Imagine! When I asked her to explain she merely snorted: You must ask him yourself when you see him.

Wheres he staying? I asked. The tap gushed as she wiped the basin with her washcloth.

Who knows? she replied, shaking the basin free of water in an arc of rapid-fire drops to the hard red clay, as if to indicate that the interview was over. Hes no more coming this side.

Well, if you see him, tell him Im looking for him.

Okay, she replied, though I could see she wasnt hoping to see him soon.

I could easily have found Madumo myself. Mpho, our mutual friend, had told me where his room wassomewhere on the first street this side of Vusis shebeen in Mapetla East. Hed also told me he wouldnt help me find our old friend. The man has changed, Mpho had said when I asked after an absent Madumo upon my arrival. Hes no more like he used to be. Friends were crowding that day into the house in Lekoka Street where I always stayed, to welcome me back to Soweto. Neighbors stopped in to enjoy the beer; the kitchen was bustling with women; the street and the yard were an uproar of children ... but there was no sign of Madumo. Wheres Madumo? I had asked, only to receive a collective shrug. Mpho tried to tell me not to expect him. I pressed for reasons. Hes changed, he said again, outlining the details of a long, complicated squabble that sounded to me like something I should rise above, and I very much doubt that hes been going to school. No, my man, I very much doubt it. I heard hes selling drugs and fakes. Mpho would say no more.