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NOTES:

OPEN SHORT STORY COMPETITION 2008/2009
THIRD PLACE

Please note: this work is copyright by the author and may not be used, copied or shared in any way whatso-ever without his/her express written permission. If you wish to be put in contact with this author, please contact us.

This story text appears exactly as sent in by the writer. No changes or corrections have been made; however, all stories to be included in the published Anthology will be edited for grammar and punctuation before printing.

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"Home Where I Belong"

by Debbie Roome - Christchurch, New Zealand

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Debbie Roome: "I was born and raised in Zimbabwe and later spent fifteen years in South Africa. In 2006 I moved to New Zealand with my husband and five children. Writing has been my passion since the age of six and I love to write stories that touch people's lives and turn them towards God. After fifteen years of owning a toy store, I am now working full time at my writing and have never been more fulfilled. My major writing achievements include the trophy for Runner up to the Writer of the Year, South Africa, 2004, placing second out of 8000 in the FaithWriters.com Best of the Best contest for 2007 and receiving the trophy from the South African Writers' Circle for the best self-published book of 2007. My writing has also opened doors for public speaking and I’m often asked to share my life story and experiences as a writer."
To visit Debbie Roome's website, click here
To visit Debbie's Blog, click here

COMMENTS FROM JUDGES:

1. Moving but unsentimental account of death, with a strong ring of truth. A tiny bit pedestrian in structure, perhaps.

2. Brought into being vividly the nature and way of life in South Africa, both rural and township, and the realities and hardships of the poor. Despite being an everyday occurrence - or perhaps because of it - this is a very individual tale, very much in character and conveying vividly the circumstances and the reactions of those involved. Moving, well written, well structured, well presented.

THE STORY:

My reflection reveals scraps of withered skin pasted over bony ridges. The disease is far advanced now and death seems to seep from every pore. My body has succumbed to its grip, but not my mind. Even as I lie here, I’m fully aware of my surroundings. Rays of sunshine spilling across the floor, dust particles suspended in warm air, the sound of splashing water as Joyce washes her hands. I’ll miss her. She’s been a good neighbour to me. Bathing me, feeding me, singing songs of comfort, cleaning my room. In spite of that, it’s a good feeling to be leaving this place. For seven years I’ve yearned for my home and now I shall return there to die.

My life in Johannesburg began in 1999.  Josiah my husband of seven months returned from the gold mines, bursting with good news. “I’ve come to take you to the city, Precious. We can have a better life there. I’m earning good money and we can rent a home in Soweto.”  His enthusiasm was catching and at seventeen years of age, I was ignorant, unable to imagine how different life would be.  

The city was a great shock. I was thrust headfirst into a boiling pot of cultures; a sprawling monster scarred by flat topped mine dumps, synthetic yellow hills that breathed fine dust across the land. The house Josiah promised me was downsized to a tiny back room in a hovel shared by four other families. Many times I wanted to run away. Leave behind the glaring street lights and incessant traffic. The burning tarmac and raucous drinking houses. The terrible violence and wars between the taxi bosses. How much I missed my beloved Valley of a Thousand Hills. I longed to breathe the fragrant air and hear the chickens scratching in the yard. To sit and grind corn with my sisters and sing soulful songs as the coppery sun dipped behind the inky lake. However, my commitment was to my husband and so I stayed.

In 2002, Josiah took sick. Night after night, he would groan and flail in his sleep, wakening slick with sweat and breathless from coughing. “It’s just the dust from the mines.” he would say. The days passed and he grew weaker and weaker, taking more and more sick days. Eventually, the mine bosses ordered him to the clinic where TB was diagnosed. The infection had infiltrated my lungs as well and together we coughed and wheezed, swallowing endless packs of pills; weapons to kill the killer lurking within.

It was months before a modicum of strength trickled back into Josiah, but he was never the same. His ebony cheeks remained dull and hollow, his limbs stringy and feeble.  

It was a dismal winter night when he told me the truth. A night so cold that ice seemed to saturate the air we were breathing. We lay in bed, curled together like suckling puppies as he whispered in my ear.  “The clinic says I am infected, Precious. I have Aids and there is nothing they can do for me.”

I still remember the seconds after he told me. The quiet, melodic ticking of the clock. The dogs howling down the street, the buttery moon that shone palely through the window. I was stunned, devastated.  “Josiah! How can that be? I have never been with another man.”  As I spoke the words, the realization sunk in.

“I’m sorry Precious. Those months I was away at the mines were hard. I needed a woman.” Bitter words followed, icy words choked from my frozen heart. Words of hatred, resentment and fear.

Alone, I visited the clinic and requested an Aids test. Alone, I sat across the desk from a counsellor and received my death sentence. It wasn’t unexpected, after all I lived with Josiah as man and wife do. Even so, the knowledge was a raw wound, an agony that twisted every fibre of my being.

Over the months, I became reconciled to my fate and nursed Josiah as he grew weaker and weaker. Back home, I’d worked as a cleaner in a mission hospital and I’d observed enough to care for him well. The mine paid him off and I learned to be street wise and to use the bank. To withdraw cash from an ATM and to carefully stretch the money to pay rent and buy food. Still, I yearned for home but was afraid to tell my family of my problems.

In early 2004, I realised I was with child. A terrible fear gripped me as I knew Josiah was dying and my turn was coming. I hadn’t planned for a baby, hadn’t thought it could possibly happen. Who would raise my child? Who could love it like I would? There was no answer to my questions. As weeks gave way to months, my belly began to stretch and tighten, taut like a growing melon in the field. I grew accustomed to the life blossoming within and pushed aside my fears for the future. Little kicks and flutters filled my days and I hummed happily as I cooked, washed and ironed. Josiah barely noticed me as his strength dwindled away.

My pains came early, much too early. As Joyce held me and sang quiet, rhythmic melodies, my little son slipped into the world. The ambulance arrived an hour later, but Solomon was gone, too tiny to have breathed one breath. I wept as they tried to take him from me, fought as they tried to take the lifeless doll huddled to my chest. “Leave her be.” Joyce admonished the paramedics. “Let her say goodbye to her son.”

“We have work to do. Other calls to respond to.” Brusque, uninterested, they waited a few minutes and then dragged Solomon from my arms.

Joyce stayed with me that week. Mopped my face with damp towels that couldn’t staunch the tears. Bound my breasts to dry the milk that would never nourish an infant. Wept with me for this baby born too soon. 

By late 2004, Josiah was emaciated and in immense pain. The little amounts of mashed food I fed him would come straight back up. Finally, I hired a man in our street to transport us to Baragwaneth Hospital.

The hospital system is impersonal and harsh. For hours my man lay on the cold concrete floor, wrapped only in a grey blanket, my jacket his pillow. I begged for someone to help him but the system had to be followed. Queue for files, fill out forms, pay the money that was required. Only then did they lift him onto a bed and stretch dingy sheets across his skeletal form. There was little they could do apart from relieve his pain. A clear plastic snake connected him to a bag of fluids and fed relief and comfort into his body.

He died three days later and I took him back to his home, to my home, to the Valley of a Thousand Hills. His death certificate stated pneumonia as cause of death and this is what I told his family. That week was the only bright spot in my grim existence and yet I returned to Johannesburg. To my little room at the back of the house. I was afraid to tell my family the truth. It’s a terrible thing to watch a loved one die, especially a long, painful death as Josiah had endured. I wanted to spare them the sorrow.

Joyce has suffered over these last weeks. I see it in her eyes. I hear it in the soft tones of her voice as she sings over me. She has neglected her family in caring for me and that is not right. It’s time for me to go home. I have given Joyce what’s left of my possessions. The bed, the pine drawers that once held Josiah’s clothing, the few plates and mugs. None of it is of use to me now. Just yesterday I signed the papers to close my bank account. My hands were so weak I could barely hold the notes. I gave Joyce most of it, used some to pay Moses to drive me home today and kept a little to pay St Mary’s Mission Hospital; the hospital where I worked a life time ago.

Joyce comes bustling in. “Moses is here, Precious. I’m going to call Dumani and Jabu to help get you outside.” I cast my eyes around the little room that has been mine for seven years. My prison cell, the place of much suffering, sorrow and pain. Yet in some ways I will miss it. It’s familiar, comforting, reminds me of Josiah.

Moses has parked his ute outside and a bed is prepared for me in the back. A soft mattress with two plump pillows and a warm checkered blanket. It’s hot outside but the warmth cannot reach my bones. I am permanently cold these days, my skin like black marble, my breasts like shrivelled apples against my sunken chest. My helpers lift me in as gently as possible. The clinic sister is called and gives me a shot, a sedative to help me sleep through the jolts and bounces of the five hour journey. My last vision is my friends and neighbours, bunched around the ute. Joyce is crying but I cannot comfort her. Indeed, I cannot even lift my hand to wave farewell.

It is evening when I awake and the air is fresh with the aroma of newly mown grass. I sip mouthfuls and joy suffuses my soul even as I hear Moses in a heated argument. It appears they have no room for me in the hospital. “Moses. Moses.” My voice is little more than a rasp, but mercifully, he hears me. “Ask for Sister Agnes. Tell her who I am.”

She is just as I remember, rosy cheeked and stout, engulfed by flowing robes. Her hand is petal soft and she strokes my cheek as I am wheeled carefully into the hallway. The air is heavy with antiseptic and the odours of hospital cooking. I have no appetite. I just want to sleep.

The roosters rouse me the next morning, their raucous summons calling the new day into being. I sense the end is near. My strength has gone, my meager reserves drained by the journey, but I am at peace. I ask Sister Agnes if I can spend my last hours on the broad hospital verandah. The bed is rolled out, wheels squishing and squeaking as they turn the corners. I am cocooned in warm blankets and my head propped up so I can see across the valley. The hills are purple in the distance, the grass green from the first rains. The air is laden with the fragrance of spring flowers and Sister Agnes puts a bowl of freshly picked roses at my bed side.

I drift in and out of sleep, savouring these last hours in my beloved valley. In the afternoon, my family appears, my sisters, my mother, my father, sought out by Sister Agnes. We cry together and they arrange themselves around my bed, the hot African sun dappling our skin and love warming our hearts. I am content as I feel my strength ebbing, flowing out as I exhale for the last time. I am home at last. Home where I belong.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Debbie Roome - do not reproduce
without the author's written permission!

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