I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do, I do not do, but what I hate I do.
Romans 7:15
Paradoxically, I’d felt sorry for myself when the heavy bleeding stopped. It had been the thorn in my flesh, the burden that was my very own, sorry load to bear. Even though there was never a place I could go without a packet of pads and a box of tampons, they’d become my trusted companions, my loyal childhood friends. So when the crazy bleeding stopped, I found myself without a reason not to put on a white summer dress and go out into the world. There was no excuse for not running, not dancing, not flying. But I was afraid. What if the wings came loose and the panty liner slipped down the side of my leg, and I fell? What if, while having so much fun, I forgot to be careful, forgot to check?
But being with Nyasha gave me courage. She was so brave, so funny, so unapologetic. Around her nothing seemed impossible. Her womb was completely dried up because she’d had a Mirena put into her uterus as soon as she started working. As she explained, she wanted none of that nonsense getting in her way.
Ma didn’t like her, of course.
“These kwere-kweres, Masechaba, they’ll use their black magic to steal all your intelligence, your whole future. Everything you’ve worked so hard for will be gone, and you’ll be left with the nothing they arrived in this country with.”
So I moved out of the house.
Nyasha and I rented a flat close to the hospital. Often we’d drive together to work if neither of us were on call. It was something I was always going to do anyway, I just hadn’t yet found anyone I felt comfortable sharing a place with. You can’t live under your mother’s roof forever, and anyway, it’s not like I was far away. A person needs space. Tshiamo would probably criticize me for leaving Ma alone in that big house, but what right does he have to criticize me? People who have no respect for life have no right telling others how to live theirs.
❖
I met Nyasha at a minor car accident scene. I’d seen her before at work, on the wards. I noticed her because she had beautiful, jet-black dreadlocks and a quiet confidence that was fearsome to behold. She was a medical officer in the Obstetrics & Gynecology Department, waiting for a specialist training post. However, it was well known in the hospital that if it wasn’t for her foreign nationality, she would already be a consultant obstetrician-gynecologist, because she was a surgeon extraordinaire.
I watched her one night, joking with a mother who was a heartbeat away from losing a perfectly healthy baby. The baby’s umbilical cord had slipped out of the woman’s vagina during labor, and Nyasha stood for four hours with a damp cloth in that bloody cavity, keeping the cord moist until an operating room opened up and the obstetrician had arrived on the premises. All the while she was laughing, Red Bull in one hand, the baby’s life in the other. I knew then that I wanted her as my friend, and that I’d do whatever it took to make sure she was in my life.
I tried to make conversation with her on the nights we were on call together. She was polite enough, but always busy. Busy saving lives while us interns fumbled along. Then one morning as I drove to work, I noticed her driving in front of me, and it occurred to me that this might be my only chance. I drove alongside her, in front of her, and then finally let her pass me again. At the hospital there was never time to talk. There was no excuse for long conversations that might end up in a friendship, no environment conducive enough to finding out more about this beautiful woman with piercing brown eyes. So as the traffic light changed from green to yellow and then to red, I pushed hard on the accelerator and drove into her.
Tshiamo would be horrified.
“The lengths you’ll go to, Masechaba!”
But nobody got hurt. I knew she wouldn’t get hurt. I would never hurt her. Not like Tshiamo, who paid no mind to how he might hurt us.
He knew better than to leave a note, that foolish boy. Because I wouldn’t have read it, anyway. I would have torn it to shreds and set it alight. He’s full of nonsense, Tshiamo. We’re all going through shit. Who the hell does he think he is?
❖
Nyasha doesn’t say much about Zimbabwe. I don’t ask too many questions, in case I offend her or expose my ignorance. All I know is that her mother is a nurse in Bristol. I don’t know if there’s a father, and I’ve never heard her speak of siblings, although she did mention she has a cousin specializing as an ENT surgeon in the US.
I feel bad about how our country treats them. We should know better, what with apartheid and all. Nyasha is quite fair skinned, and actually looks South African, so you wouldn’t even know she was foreign until you speak to her.
Sometimes she upsets me, though. She speaks like an authority on what we South Africans should and should not do, as if she has some sort of expertise. Just the other day she came home upset about a white patient she’d just admitted, who asked if there was a girl who could help him carry his bags to the ward. Nyasha was outraged by his use of the word “girl” and went
