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Lesiba the calligrapherZachariah RapolaLesiba screamed when he woke from his nightmare. As wakefulness took possession of him he was struck by three things: a sour taste in his mouth, the meowing of his neighbour’s cat, and recollections of the dream. It was the third time in five years that the same dream had recurred. Each time he would be wading through a snake-infested pit. There was this one green and blue snake that would strike his heel, and his attempts to bash its head were always unsuccessful. He was not overly concerned about the bad omen it might carry. Rather he was irritated by the fact that it delayed the completion of his Book of Dreams, a diary in which he recorded all his dreams, past and present. He was already at Chapter 102. Unlike previous times, when he would dismiss the dream, he started thinking about potential enemies. Among his friends, Peter, Sonto, Mandla and Eddie. The last was the one who was giving signs of growing into a rival. In the past they had clashed over women. There were also his work colleagues. Among these, Ketso, his departmental supervisor, was the one with the potential for trouble. Though married, he was determined to frustrate Lesiba’s chances of jolling with Benita. He knew though, that Ketso was not a threat. The man was a lousy dresser and a lousy smoker who was still stuck on BB Tobacco in the era of Peter Stuyvesant. He couldn’t charm women or tell convincing lies. His only speciality was blabbing about his subordinates to the bosses. It was common talk that Ketso’s position was more of an affirmative action gesture than a recognition of competence. Outside his door, lording it over the whole township, there was Bra Shine, the one with the perpetually clean-shaven scalp, and Bra Morgan, who had a panga scar running down the left side of his face. Both were rumoured to be members of the local Big Five gangs. Both drove colossal Be-My-Wife BMWs. Though they were forever associated with this or that crime, no life-valuing gossip monger was foolish enough to suck onto any of those rumours. Lesiba was one of these clever ones. Jwalane was his common-law wife. She was based in Craighall Park as a live-in domestic maid. He saw very little of her. The few times she visited him in the township, she brought food parcels, most of which he was certain had been ‘self-donated’ from the madam’s kitchen; another aspect of wealth redistribution on a small scale. He thanked his ancestors for such a considerate wife. It enabled him to spend his extra cash on luxuries like horse betting and regular church pilgrimages to different parts of the country. It was only when he missed her that he used to consider getting himself mmane-a-bana. Those brought their own problems: money and the other men they were involved with. He knew that men of his times — those of one or two generations before — were brave and passionate enough to kill over a woman, if not to marry her then at least to settle her with a dozen kids and spend the next ten years lamenting the lack of virgins to marry. Jwalane … could he depend on her? But then most women were loving and caring enough to spurn the advances of humble men besotted with them in favour of jackpots like Bra Shine and Bra Morgan who were so obsessed with money that they were prepared to kill for it — but not work to earn it. He thanked his ancestors for their stinginess in not giving him even a semblance of wealth. He was certain that if they had, Bra Shine and his bras would’ve repossessed it a long time ago. The dream of the snake-infested pit ... That was not the only dream he dreamt. There were others. Dreams that used to mount him and ride him to strange lands. Dreams that took him through streets paved with human flesh and bones. And there were times when bits of his own flesh would peel off to merge with the tar spread on those streets. His reflections about the dreams were disturbed by the sound of an AK-47 rifle. There was no need to panic for he knew it was only one of the Big Five gangs engaged in target practice in preparation for yet another bank raid. With that comforting thought, he went back to sleep. Arriving at work the following day he found Ketso at his locker. On seeing him the latter hastily scurried away. The previous night’s dream came back to mind. Lesiba resolved to give the locker a thorough search later. He went out looking for Mandla. “Hey, monna, what was old Kickso doing in my locker?” “Scouting for love notes from Benizo!” “I’m serious, man. That ndala is up to something.” “Kahle, monna! He was probably after your scoff-tin.” “I don’t believe that. You know Kickso doesn’t go for your smiley and runaways. He is a guy for pizzas and buffet tables.” It was one of their lunch times for ridiculing their supervisor. Lesiba gave his locker a thorough scrutiny. After patient searching he found what he was looking for — a coppery piece of tree bark. He wrapped it in a sheet of A4 typing paper and took it home. His dreams that night were elusive. He could not pin any of them down. He would see faces and figures but they would lose their profiles the minute he tried to focus on them. The customary numbers that had helped him throughout the years to bet correctly with the Chinaman and on the horses were also elusive that night. It was then that he regretted having brought home Ketso’s coppery charm. Once more the completion of his Book of Dreams was to be deferred because of a lousy error. Three days later he dreamt that he had lost the ability to dream. That was not the only dream he dreamt. There were others: dreams that would unfurl curtains before his eyes and screen gory pictures of his [death on a spit. Dreams that unreeled with scenes of his dismemberment by wild dogs. At times it was punishment for fondling altar girls. At other times for pickpocketing infirm beggars.] The dreams so shocked him that he resolved to go and consult a nyanga the following day. The man endowed with ancestral powers addressed him: “Thank your ancestors for leading you to me in time. Had you wasted one more day, I tell you, your enemies are already sharpening their teeth to feast at your funeral. “There is a man … u ya vuma? A tall, dark complexioned man … u ya vuma? There is a woman. Sometimes she steals your gourd and drinks from your stream. But I see her stealing from the streams of other men as well. Avoid her, her mouth is cursed and contaminated with the saliva of wild animals … u ya vuma? There is a big tree … The tall dark man sometimes hides behind its trunk, sometimes he climbs it. His shadow always hangs around you. He absorbs all the sun rays meant for you … u ya vuma? I also see pages written, many lines of parables. The parables float around you. Mostly you grab them, but of late they drift farther and farther away … Angry shadows hover around you. They want your parables …” When the consultation ended, Lesiba was dazed. Arriving late at work, he told a lie: that his taxi had been involved in an accident. He noticed that everybody looked at him queerly. All were distant and aloof. Whenever he approached any of his colleagues they would disperse. The incident prompted him to change the title of his book to Book of dreams and parables. That night he again dreamt of the snake pit. The snakes all had human faces, his colleagues’, neighbours’, and relatives’. This time, though, he was able to make additions to his Book of dreams and parables. The dream that would lead to his social ruin followed. It was a couple of weeks before the 1984 period of political turmoil. He called it Dream Number [109], as it was his practice to title them numerically. He saw black smoke descending over Alexandra. Men and women were choking and vomiting before falling down and dying in the alleys and gutters. An angel came and lifted him up above the smoke. He made the terrible mistake of telling the dream to his priest during confession. He could tell the priest didn’t like it by the way he frowned. Much later he was called by the archbishop to clarify the matter. He was instructed never to tell other church members the dream and to renounce the part about the angel as blasphemy. He was not surprised, therefore, days later, to see the archbishop address a press conference where he told of the tragedy that would befall Alexandra. When the insurrection erupted ten days later the archbishop was hailed as a latter-day Nostradamus. Journalists besieged his house and converts joined his church in droves. Lesiba secretly hoped to be promoted to the position of elder, but that never came. Instead he was ostracised and accused of aspirations to usurp the archbishop’s position. After that episode he learned to keep his dreams to himself. He resolved to keep the book a secret. He spent sleepless nights consuming ink and paper recording and revising the dreams. After recording sessions lasting several weeks he would go out gallivanting. It wasn’t long before he fell victim to the consequences of that revelry: losing the power to record or retain his dreams. This worried him a lot. He consulted one of the church elders. “Your ancestors are angry. They are taking what they gave. Worse will follow. Stop your gluttony, stop your carousing,” the elder cautioned. Lesiba listened and pondered the instructions. Finally he concluded it was better to sacrifice the pleasures of life, not out of desperation to finish the book or a desire for the fame it might bring him, but because he knew that feeding some of the church elders with his prophecies was advancing his aspirations to the position of archbishop and the power and money that came with it. He was nonetheless haunted by worry that he had not yet dreamt the ultimate dream, the dream that might reveal his destiny. He started fasting. On the third night of his fast the late archbishop of Mount Galilee Christ over the Cross Church in Zion appeared to him. He instructed Lesiba to part from Jwalane and devote his life to spreading the gospel. Lesiba spent days brooding over the instructions. Finally he sent Jwalane this letter: Dear Jwalane A couple of nights ago a strange dream came to me. I constantly pray, Jwalane, that the dreams remain My church elders have warned that unless I heed and Our late Archbishop, Baba Mandevu, instructed me Baba Nhlapho constantly preached in church that My wife, Jwalane, I know by obeying Baba’s Until we meet again in the Lord’s Ark I pray and Your devoted brother in the Lord, When they heard about the letter, Jwalane’s parents called an urgent family kgotla. “Take the fool for a good sjambokking at a people’s court,” Jwalane’s brother shouted. “Kahle, that is not our custom,” Jwalane’s aunt countered. “Call him and his parents to resolve the matter.” “I tell you, he is sick. With those nonsense dreams! I heard he’s after the archbishop’s chair.” “Why doesn’t he just start his own little sect? Pretoria doesn’t even bother registering them.” “You better all call him and resolve it, or I’ll sort him out. Nobody plays around with a sister of mine.” Meanwhile Lesiba’s life continued. The frequency of his strange dreams increased. And those were not the only dreams he dreamt. There were dreams that blinded his eyes with an inferno stoked on the holiest shrines. There were dreams that would part like the Red Sea during Moses’ exodus from Egypt and surrender his enemies to the torrid waves. There were the dreams of necklace victims; they would emerge riding on chariots, brandishing Eiffel Tower-sized torches, charging after their executioners. Sometimes he would dream during the day. That was when he was engaged in trying to interpret the dreams. He would close his eyes and see crowds of devotees prostrate before him, offering their reverence for the salvation he brought them. He started nurturing that dream into a probability; in time it matured into a reality. Only that reality happened to him alone. When the late archbishop came again, he impressed upon Lesiba the need to double the tempo of spreading the gospel. He stressed that the end was round the corner. “And the Lord’s ark has only a driblet. Look at your sagging belly; I instructed you to give up earthly pursuits yet you continue stuffing yourself.” “But how will I survive? I don’t know the difference between fasting and starving.” “The One who commands will provide.” Yes, he recalled that the One referred to did provide for John the Baptist in the desert. The following day Lesiba sent a message to Mandla to collect all the belongings from his locker and bring them to him. Ketso relished the whole turn of events. When word spread around the factory that Lesiba had left work, he went about boasting: “Who did he think he was? He is only a sick fanatic. I tell you, no stupid prayers can withstand my muti.” Lesiba devoted his time to prayer and the interpretation of dreams. Multitudes started arriving to have their dreams interpreted. “Please give me muti so that I can dream,” some pleaded with him. “I am scared of my recent dream. I dream about myself being run over by a bus packed with tourists.” “Let us listen to the giver of dreams.” After a moment’s meditative silence Lesiba said: “I see you crossing mountains and rivers. Going to places where none of your people has ever been before.” “Oh please make it happen. I love to travel.” Lesiba would always say: “Let us ask the One who gives dreams to interpret them.” They would then bow their heads while he communicated with his God. Sometimes the interpretations would happen quickly, at other times he would be forced to remain with head bowed for close on an hour. Then multitudes of young men and women started sniffing each other’s heels as they raced to his house. Sometimes he would have to suppress a chuckle during these consultations. The young men mostly asked for help to be brought into contact with this or that virgin whom they claimed to have seen in their dreams. Some lamented the failure of their prayers: “For six months I have been praying to meet and marry Miss Alexandra. In my dreams it happens, yet all my efforts to meet her have failed.” “The woman I constantly dream of making love to tells me I’m not her type when I propose to her.” The young women, too, came in droves. “The man I love has a wife and two children. I have been praying for their death. It is now almost a year; instead the wife is getting fatter.” “None of the fathers of my five children want to marry me.” To these, Lesiba would say: “Be patient. The giver of dreams will unravel them when he is ready.” Widows came. They asked him to pray for them so that they would meet new husbands. Some of them would even confess that it was revealed to them in dreams that he was the man that they should get married to. Among them were beautiful ones, and he would feel tempted. Not long after that he started having the same strange dream for three consecutive weeks. That was not the only dream he dreamt. There were others as well … Dreams that ripped the lids off coffins and tombstones off graves to reveal martyrs. Dreams of the blood of all murder and violent death victims, from Abel to those of modern-time carnage, gelling into giant waves and clouds that flooded the land and drowned all living organisms on earth. He tried to shut off the dream, dampen it with the singing of hymns and of chants, but it refused to be expunged from his mind. The arrival of more widows, younger and more beautiful than the previous ones, started interfering with his telepathic frequency. Meanwhile the strange dream continued. He recorded it in his book as Dream number 128 and subtitled it: Dream of a dozen orgies In the dream I saw twelve men and women emerge from the Jukskei Women suffered doubly, for once they had sliced off men’s Then the well-nourished men with full bellies cut the A chanting Jwalane appeared. She ran, brandishing This dream shocked Lesiba. He could not reconcile it with the reality he so wished for. He wondered whether the dream had any telepathic link with his latest legion of followers, the widows. This was not the only dream he dreamt. There were others as well … Dreams of aborted foetuses sealing the fallopian tubes of females universally. Dreams of harsh martial laws and executions to counteract [violent acts and solidarity protest marches of redundant gynaecologists internationally.] Mmadieketse, better known throughout the township as Cinzano Widow or Ousie Deli, joined them later. She was a strikingly beautiful twenty-seven-year-old. It was rumoured that her thirty-year-old late boyfriend, a bank robber, had left her a fortune; a shebeen on East Bank, a tavern in Selection Park, a ten-roomed double-storey mansion in Mmabatho, and three cars — [a Caravelle, a Seven Series S’lahla, and a 525I Gusheshe.] Of course Lesiba was not attracted by her material wealth. He heard that she was haunted by a curse of losing all her men. They were snatched from her either by a knife or a bullet. Nor was he interested in another rumour that, at the age of fourteen, she had sold the life of her first boyfriend for a bottle of Cinzano — others claimed it was Aurora whiskey. “It is sheer luck that none of them has shown her his true colours. But, I tell you, she’ll meet her match one of these days.” “Ja! She double-crossed them against each other. Once they take hikes six feet down she inherits their loot.” Deli was loathed by women. Maybe it was just natural: few of them could match her magnetic charms in hitting jackpots. But wasn’t the Son of Man, too, despised? Late one evening she came to see Lesiba. He prayed fervently for her. “Lord give me strength to guide this soul to salvation. Your stray lamb seeks your embrace.” “Baba, I am frightened. A Zionist prophet has warned that I will be knifed to death within days unless I repent. Please, Baba, pray for me.” “Talk to the One above. His ears are a sanctuary for wandering voices.” “All the men I have planned to marry have passed away. The last one was shot two weeks ago.” “The ears of the One above are alms for famished words. Let us pray for your soul, his soul, and the soul of all the departed.” As the two bowed their heads, Lesiba was aware of Deli’s perfume. He was also aware that their heads were touching. In contrast to his audible praying, he could only hear her whispered murmur. It was then that he became aware of the minty fragrance drifting from her mouth. “Baba, is it true …?” she suddenly whispered. “Shhh! Pray, my child.” “Is it true what they say, Baba?” “What?” “That because I did not observe amasiko wethu after the death of my first boyfriend, all men who sleep with me will die?” “You undoubtedly have sinned, my child. But remember the One above forgives seventy-seven times seventy-seven.” Lesiba’s prayer rhythm was disturbed. He stopped. He raised his face to find her looking at him appealingly. The deeper he looked into her eyes, the further he saw the desperate lost soul drift into oblivion. He reached out his hands to save it from getting sucked into the abyss. “Open your heart and soul to him. Pray, my child. Remember to forgive seventy-seven times seventy-seven …” At these comforting words she collapsed into his arms. Hopeless, her fragile body already resigned to spiritual widowhood at twenty-seven. As her body brushed against his, he felt like the baby Christ in Mother Mary’s tender arms. When he woke up it was one in the morning. Ousie Deli was snoring softly by his side. Quietly he got off the bed and went to kneel at the door to say his absolution prayers. When he came back to bed she was awake. “I must go, Baba.” “The world has grown teeth; I cannot allow you to venture out.” “I am okay, Baba. I feel cleansed. I know nothing will harm me.” She kissed him before jumping out of bed and preparing to leave. He rubbed his eyes repeatedly for he saw what appeared to be devilish silhouettes hovering around her. They were making obscene and threatening gestures at him. A heavy pall wrapped around him. He shook his head to chase away sleep, but like a sedated patient on an operating table, he drifted into slumber. He was in the grip of the pall when the late Baba Mandevu appeared. “Heed! Adulterer, fornicator, where is my flock?” “Baba, why do you frown on your devoted servant?” “Go, sinner! For one extra night you could not resist the temptation of earthly pleasures. Where have you led my lambs? To the jaws of marauding wolves. With whom will I trust my flock when my appointed shepherds turn into wolves?” Lesiba tried to plead his case but the archbishop remained unrelenting. “I have given you your dreams as your reward for leading my flock. But all this you scorn to appease your lust.” Lesiba tried harder to plead for his moral lapse. The late archbishop remained obdurate in disclaiming him. He then instructed Lesiba to burn the manuscript of Dreams and Parables. Lesiba woke up and sat on the bed. He could hear the rain lashing the roof. His blankets were warm and comforting. He found the idea of destroying his valuable book unacceptable. He then concluded that the late elder had confused his commands. Maybe he had meant to instruct him to destroy all the newspapers and other books and magazines he read. With that comforting thought he went back to sleep. Much later he was woken by the shattering of one of his windows. Reverberations of thunder followed. He turned to find the window bars mangled. The smell of burning paper drew his attention to the sideboard where he kept the manuscript for his Book of Dreams and Parables. He saw only charred black fragments of what had been his treasured pages of concrete proof that dreams are part of reality. He tried desperately but could not decipher his delicate handwriting in that soot. |
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