3-His Judgement

I took the dreaded last steps up the path to my grandma's rickety house. I knew that I’d have a lot to answer for once I got inside. I didn't want to deal with that. I just wanted to talk to my brother and get to know the man that he had become. He needed to know why I left and that I didn't choose it. He needed to know that he was loved.

I smelled my grandma's Tomatie Bredie as soon as I stepped into the house. That smell was a highlight of many of my home-sick dreams. She sent me the recipe one year. Lucas and I tried to cook it a few times. It turned out pretty tasty after the fourth or twentieth time, but it never smelt quite like my grandma's food. She poured the soul of her people into every pot she made us. I could always smell the love before she even dished me a plate. I had missed her food. I wondered if it tasted as good as it did in my dreams.

"You better get in here before I come out there and drag you in by your teeth!" my ma's voice came rumbling out of the front door. That old lady has a voice like a thunderstorm. You'd think Shango was channelling her vocal cords to put thunder and lightning into the skies. I hurried inside and took a deep breath, bracing myself for her to scold me for running off as I did.

I was right. First, she hugged me tighter than my bones or heart could take. Then she scolded me. I was afraid that she'd give me hiding next, but maybe my long absence counted in my favour. Beating with love, my ass; that woman, grey-haired and wrinkled skin, would have me black and blue and making her tea for a month if she wanted. I had conflicting emotions as I walked the short passage towards my room, making sure to avoid my brother and uncle on the way. Presumably, they were at home, but I had no desire to confirm my suspicions. I did not have it in me to deal with either of them, so I dragged my vacant body into a single bed and zipped my eyes shut. The day's events played on the inside of my eyelids like a nineteenth-century silent horror film; all suspense and tension. The only difference was that my director’s cut lacked the catharsis of a climax. There was no release of tension. Only a volcanic girl ready to explode.

The next morning felt kinder when it woke me up. I was groggy, but more amiable by the time I joined my grandma in the kitchen. I took my time indulging in the rich brew while she told me about the preparations she was tackling today for the upcoming ceremony. I tried to hold onto her words, but they kept slipping out of my grasp. My mind was drifting too much for me to follow the conversation. 

"Where's Zeen, ma," I finally asked. It had to be done. She gave me a look reserved for mothers – it was a bittersweet look to get from your grandmother. She understood what I needed to do.

"Your brother is outside. He and your big-headed uncle are making me do all this cooking for tonight. It's good too – I don't need them poisoning my grandbaby on her first proper night home," I nodded and smiled at my salt-and-pepper haired ma. I guessed tonight was going to be our do-over for the previous day's mishaps. Despite yesterday’s dramatics, I was still home. I was determined to enjoy it while it lasted.

"Your uncle loves that boy. He loves you too. He's just trying, like the rest of us," she said. I looked at my feet. I nodded my head and walked towards the yard.

I found Razeen in the shed out back with a crowbar in hand. I kicked the dirt around until he put the tools down and washed his hands. I decided to make the first move. I was the older sister after all.

"Hey," I said awkwardly. He finally looked up with a soft smile, drying his hands on his jeans. He nodded. Guess that was his way of saying hi.

"How's the car coming?" I asked. I didn’t know what else to talk about. He gave me a strange look, then nodded his head excitedly.

I listened to him rattle on about all the modifications he made to the old Volkswagen. Apparently, it was just "a hunk of metal" when he found it, but our uncle helped him fix it up.

What struck me was that he didn't refer to him as an uncle. He called him "pa". That broke my heart even further if that was possible. I guess he did raise him, but I doubt our actual father was happy, hearing that his brother stole his little boy as soon as he closed his eyes.

I forced the thought out of my mind and allowed myself to enjoy my brother's joy. He was excited. His face lit up as he spoke about his car. Despite all the pain he had endured unknowingly, he was finally and truly happy. I wanted to hug him and scream at him and tell him that I love him. But if I did that I would destroy his happiness and his life along with it.

"You should go help your ouma with the food," my uncle said in a voice that failed to bridge the tension between us. I just looked at him. Not speaking. Not accusing him or blaming him. I really doubted that I needed to translate my anger for him after yesterday.

"Yes, Chief," I said in an acidic tone. I tried walking past him, but he caught my arm.

"What did you tell Razeen?" he demanded. Despite his tall stature, he felt small in my eyes.

"Nothing… yet," I said through clenched teeth.

I ripped my arm from his grip and marched into the house.