Ghost Strain N (Mashigo, 2018) (1).pdf

# Ghost Strain N Koketso may have been the first to notice and it hurt him physically. His stomach ached for days when the size and shape of the problem became evident. How could the neighbourhood not realize what was happening? If people who lived close enough to smell each other's dinners couldn'...

# Ghost Strain N Koketso may have been the first to notice and it hurt him physically. His stomach ached for days when the size and shape of the problem became evident. How could the neighbourhood not realize what was happening? If people who lived close enough to smell each other's dinners couldn't see it, what about those who didn't know the names of their neighbours? Being a young person whose observations and opinions were not valued, Koketso knew nobody would believe him. By the time official announcements had been made, hearts had been eaten and whole neighbourhoods evacuated. You see, a major event is really just a string of small, overlooked events holding hands. One of the little hands was when Koketso stopped using adjectives. How could he possibly describe anything when the world around him had lost its colour? Steven was the Colour, ever since they were kids; Koketso drew the lines and saw the bigger picture but Steven always added the colour and purpose. Girls were the bright Saffron of their afternoons but also the Grey of their rejection. Weekends with Steven were Purple - either Royal or a messy Mulberry stain. They both added something to each other's lives. Before he met Koketso, Steven was just floating and rarely feeling; as soon as they became friends, he started to like the warmth of the feelings he sometimes caught. Aimless Saturday afternoons became an opportunity for Koketso to listen to Steven talking to people who passed by his uncle's house: 'Mtshepana, you're still wearing those fake shoes? You're letting the neighbourhood down, wena. This is why the boys in this neighbourhood don't have girlfriends. Usifakela is'nyama, Tshepo.' Many people commented that they had never seen Koketso laugh before Steven came into his life. Because they attended different schools, Koketso found that his hours at school remained anaemic, and Steven found that he was followed by a relentless emptiness to every class. Every few months Steven found a new hobby for them to take up. The one that Koketso could never get into was graffiti; the smell of the spray paint made him dizzy and he didn't think he had a creative bone in his body. He'd just watch Steven paint everything from walls of abandoned buildings to portaloos and sometimes cars. The source of the spray paint also made Koketso nervous: Steven mumbled something about a friend who knew about his passion. Trainsurfing was by far the most exciting (and stupidly dangerous) hobby that Steven introduced. Once a week they would take a train instead of a taxi home from school. Once inside, they would slide out of the windows onto the top of the train. Koketso only took part because he had worked out that the likelihood of them being electrocuted was low, given the slow speed of the train on their way home. Still, it was thrilling for Koketso to watch his friend dance on top of the moving train; it made him feel alive. Isn't that why we are alive, to feel alive? was what he thought, when his mother threatened to kill him herself rather than have to collect his charred corpse because he was trainsurfing. They became friends in the way men and boys do: proximity. Steven moved in next door when Koketso was already an outsider both at school and in the neighbourhood. Unfamiliar with the hierarchy of their one tiny street with no tarred surface or streetlights, Steven dared to speak to the invisible boy. Together they carved their own place in the claustrophobic living space, chased girls who bared their teeth in fear, exchanged clips of comedians on their phones and occasionally shared food when one or the other hadn't eaten for a few days. Steven had the taste buds of a culinary genius when it came to improvising and matching flavours. He could make magic out of a can of pilchards, toasted bread, morogo and onions (that were nearly dustbin suitable). Koketso, on the other hand, was only good at observing, being a companion and occasional comic relief. He had spent enough time by himself to become a master of observation and entertaining himself. High school did nothing to prepare them for a life burdened with complications. Koketso's complication was that he couldn't afford to study further, so he started working at a funeral home. A quiet young man with big, sympathetic eyes, he found the perfect use for his kind face. When grieving families saw him walking around the funeral home, they relaxed a little. They mistook his silence for respect and his disinterest for awareness of how difficult the loved one's death was for them. Steven found himself dealing with a complication that had become common in his neighbourhood: dreams deferred and idle days. He had once told his uncle that he had dreams of being a chef. The callous laughter that followed informed him that his dreams should become unvoiced. Koketso tiptoed around the dead while his best friend walked loudly among those who wanted to die. You would think that the nation would have sat up when its young people lost their ability to stand up straight or speak. If nothing else, people who are harassed by life have a wry sense of humour, because they would eventually call these vacant young people 'Ghosts'. Nothing happened as these Ghosts were overtaking corners of the townships. Saliva dripped from their mouths as their muscles relaxed, eyes half shut, some bent over in the kind of ecstasy and agony oblivion brings. When the Ghosts eventually came to Koketso's part of town, he was shocked into silence. He periodically wrote obituaries, when he wasn't getting tea for bereaved families, driving the hearse or arguing with the mortician. The government mortuary was inept and frequently they would give Koketso the wrong corpse. At least twice a week he could be seen running into the mortuary shouting, 'Aaaargha Jerry, man! Kanti die man doesn't know what he's doing!' It was on one of those afternoons, when Koketso was heading back to an inconsolable family with the correct corpse, that he noticed a Ghost at the traffic lights. The Ghost was wearing a brown jersey, jeans that needed a wash and tattered shoes (Ghosts sometimes sell their expensive takkies in exchange for oblivion). His right arm was hooked around a pole, holding up the rest of the body. The Ghost was not slumped over or falling, but graciously suspended in a moment of sliding down the pole, except that his knees had locked and he looked like a life-sized photograph frozen in that position. There was nothing in his eyes, nothing but oblivion. Drool fell from his mouth, just missing the tattered shoes that he had probably stolen from another Ghost. People were flying, oblivious, past the Ghost suspended in time. Nobody noticed it until a small girl with a big dog poked him with a stick in the way curious children think is appropriate; she tried to say something to him and then ran after her dog that was attempting to cross the busy street. Koketso decided to fast for a week. Children with religious parents are often breastfed the faith and its rituals or, like Koketso, they find refuge in the rituals and not the God. When there wasn't enough food for all her children, his mother would fast and pray. From a young age, Koketso learned to listen to his stomach; when anything bothered him he would fast the way he had always seen his mother do. She fussed over him, because she hated that he was unsettled. It was a mood she knew all too well; even when he was a baby, she could tell just by looking at him that it would rain with thunder and lightning. No matter how bright the day started out, her son's face was the only forecast she trusted. When a particularly unpleasant relative was about to surprise them with an unwanted visit, Koketso would suddenly refuse food. On those days, his mother would throw him on her back, lock up the house and go visit a friend. Only when he cried, a hungry cry, would she know that it was safe to go home. Because of Koketso's job, the two friends hadn't seen each other in weeks - which is an eternity for boys who grew up together in spite of what the elements wanted. Missing Steven, Koketso went looking for his friend. Home was the obvious first choice; if not there then probably on the streets surrounding the place where he laid his head down. Not finding him on a Friday afternoon didn't worry Koketso – Steven enjoyed partying in other neighbourhoods; the girls there were less likely to have run into his ex-girlfriends or know that he only splurged on drinks when his uncle's disability grant had come in. Saturday was when Koketso was busiest at work; there were always back-to-back funerals. He got home exhausted and slept the day away. Sunday was busy until lunchtime and he was certain that Steven would either wait for him outside the funeral home or show up for lunch at his house. The Sunday lunch appearances were becoming regular – Koketso would watch his friend eat like a man with multiple stomachs. His eyes were in a perpetual state of waking up, turned down and glassy. Steven's uncle was only worried because he didn't like to be alone and Steven hadn't been home for two weeks. The next day at work, Koketso heard Mamokgethi, his boss, talking to Jerry. 'Is it true, Jerry?' 'I saw it for myself. Her heart was ripped out and covered in bite marks.' 'What is the world coming to? Modimo!" 'I don't know but this is gruesome.' Koketso entered the kitchen where the two gossips stood holding cups of coffee. Jerry's hand was resting on top of Mamokgethi's; they quickly moved away from each other. 'Koketso, hey man!' 'Jerry. I'm coming to do a pick-up, please make sure it's the right one.' Jerry chuckled and nodded but he was obviously annoyed. Whispers about hearts being torn out of people continued and they got louder. In churches, shebeens, kitchens and bedrooms, that is what people were talking about. Ghosts colonised street corners and the fences of the corner houses. Koketso fainted at work (a promise to God to stop eating until Steven was found) and was sent home. He had resorted to bargaining with a god he didn't really believe in. A little bit of soup and bread did him some good but he still felt as though something horrible was coming - his stomach was screaming danger. Huddled at the kitchen table, he looked at his mother and siblings. He knew they had to go; the township was never safe but now it was unquestionably dangerous. After dinner Koketso asked his mother to take his younger siblings and go visit his grandmother. 'Why?' 'It's school holidays and I've been saving up money for you guys to go.' That wasn't exactly a lie - he had been saving up money but it was for extending their tiny house so his siblings could have their own room, instead of sleeping on the floor of his. 'Are you coming?' 'No. I have to work. Buy the tickets tomorrow and go surprise your family. You always talk about how much you miss home,' 'It has been five years since I've seen my mother and brother.' His mother blinked away tears, tilted her head to one side and said, 'You're such a kind boy.' By the time national newspapers, radio stations and TV stations were covering the 'outbreak' it was too late for many. It happened so fast; in less than two weeks whole neighbourhoods were emptied, many hearts extracted and countless Ghosts burned, because mob justice knows no sentimentality. The burning of Ghosts began in townships because the illness was euphemised in the suburbs. Even those with fancy houses, money, and gentle words like 'euthanasia' couldn't escape the Ghosts. The funeral home was busier than ever and sometimes Koketso didn't even know whether he was comforting the right family. It didn't matter because they were all shocked and, most of all, frightened. He sent his mother a quick and concise message after every one of the funerals: Still safe. Work busy. Miss Uguys. Koketso had just come home from work when he heard a commotion outside. There was a group gathering in the street outside his bedroom window. He had become numb in the days that lacked colour or a sighting of Steven. The group was hiding or blocking someone with the circle that their bodies created. There was yelling, profanities, people crying and other noises Koketso couldn't or wouldn't identify. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that Steven would be next. Could he live with knowing that he did nothing to save his only friend? Was Steven so far gone that some other group of frightened, angry people would see fit to kill him, rather than let him eat the hearts of people? He didn't come to any satisfactory conclusion but he knew what had to be done, and packed a bag. Filled it in a hurry with knives, a knobkerrie, his mother's church shawl, toilet paper, other things he thought would be important, and all the canned food he could find. Mamokgethi trusted him with the keys to the hearse because she thought he was too dull to do anything dangerous or expensive. He once overheard her telling the receptionist that he was too mild. 'He's so mild. I know I should be grateful because these other kids out there are killing themselves and others, but yoo ha ah, what a dull boy!' Being dull finally paid off, Koketso thought, as he drove in whatever direction he imagined might lead him to Steven. 'Just look for the most colourful street, that's where he will be,' Koketso kept telling himself. He hoped that Jerry and his boss would forgive him for stealing some equipment from the mortuary: the extreme state of affairs required a little bit of 'not dull' behaviour from him. A quarter of the neighbourhood had already left; there was not enough attachment to material things that would make them risk losing their children. Koketso's own mother was very worried about him. She made him promise that he would pack up a few things and join them at her brother's house further inland. He lied, and she let him. Fear and trauma make you accept little lies to silence the truth because when the truth is young people breaking into homes, tearing hearts out of people's chests and eating them, anything is better than admitting that life will never be the same. Even the police denied that Ghosts were impervious to bullets, the way they just kept walking - not even stumbling when hit - in search of drugs, or hearts, and sometimes both. They never attacked each other, though. Their appetite was for those who were not lost. Steven, even as a living-dead thing, still seemed like he was emitting neon fumes. Koketso found him after a few hours of searching. He was hiding in a bush, eating something stringy and bloody. It was the luminous bush, in front of an unremarkable grey house, that acted like a magnet to Koketso. He followed the cloud of colour behind the bush and his heart leapt. At first, it seemed like Steven recognised his own name; he looked up at his friend and attempted to stand. Then something wild flashed across his face as he stumbled back, his manic eyes moving from Koketso to his own hands. A searing rage launched his body forward, his hands clawing at the chest of the person he once considered a brother. Koketso didn't run or back away; he took the silver chain he had stolen off a long-gone neighbour's gate and wrapped it around the unusually strong Ghost formerly known as Steven. They struggled for a few minutes but when Koketso tightened the chain around the Ghost's chest, it was easier to drag him to the back of the hearse. The angry screams of Ghost Steven, the clattering of chains and shoes and skin scraping on the gravel, drew the attention of people in a house nearby. 'Hey! Vha khou ita mini?' one of the people from the house shouted, wanting to know what was going on. Koketso didn't take his eyes off what he was doing; heaving a living body into a coffin was much more difficult than he'd thought. But he didn't give up. The Steven he knew seemed to be hiding somewhere behind the eyes of the Ghost in the coffin. A group of people was now walking towards him. 'Hey! Hey wena mfana! Are you deaf? What are doing here? It must be one of those Nyaope dealers.' Koketso didn't wait to see what those people would do to a person they suspected of being a drug dealer in a time of Ghosts, paranoia and fear. Nyaope was just another name for an opportunist. Where society left a gap, this opportunist took over. It was an opportunist that slipped into your hand, lied to your heart and ate your brain. Scientists were calling it a virus; Koketso didn't believe that - he had seen with his own eyes its genesis. In just a few months things had fallen apart all over the world. Many people had died - their corpses quickly incinerated because films and TV shows taught us that the undead could create more undead. There were reports of increasing numbers of Ghosts cropping up all over the world; doctors and scientists still didn't know how the 'virus' was spreading or if it was even possible to cure it. There were different strains of virus and each one had a different effect on the Ghosts and the neighbourhoods that ignored or housed them. The one Koketso was dealing with was known as Ghost Strain N. 'Ghost' because those who had it were virtually dead before they had it - broken people who turned to a life of oblivion and homelessness even when they had places to lay their heads at night. 'N' because in his neighbourhood it was Nyaope that had sustained the Ghosts; it kept them alive and in search of the next fall down a bottomless pit, until the high ended and yanked them back into a world they hated. Nyaope was particularly unforgiving because it could be a mixture of almost anything and heroin. Ghost Strain T in the Western Cape made the Ghost chew the hands and arms off people. T was for Tik. Ghost Strain W hit farm workers on Wine farms where Ghosts ripped the throats out of people and ate them. Koketso thought a lot about the different strains and what drove Ghosts to attack certain body parts and not others. He finally decided that Strain W made Ghosts rip out the oesophagus from people because they had wine poured down their throats instead of being compensated and invested in by those who profited from their labour. The Ghost Virus was quick, violent and efficient. Hospitals could not keep up with the many people who were brought in; some died where they fell and the army was left to identify and dispose of the dead. Very soon the country became a Ghost ||| Town where most of what made people feel secure, fell away. There were no more jobs to wake up for, nor was there civility or respect for the property of others. There was no longer a threat of hell, or suffering afterlife, if they didn't love their neighbour. Hell visiting Earth had stripped away the good nature they had always assumed was inherent. Koketso held on to hope and everything he had ever seen in B-Grade movies about an unlikely hero making it to the end in one piece. He breathed in hope that fuelled a belief that his family was safe; there was no way of communicating with them but hope never relied on evidence. Many years of watching B-Grade (and sometimes C-Grade) action films prepared him for the kind of athleticism and quick thinking that would keep him alive. Love made him carry his best friend, the only person who ever made him want to be better, in a coffin in the backs of various stolen cars. All his life, Koketso wanted to travel and see more of his own country and places that were unfamiliar. He got his wish. For months he kept stealing SUVs and trucks that had enough space to carry a coffin. It was after a month of this that he finally heard Steven say something. Koketso had found a food-canning factory. It looked like a place that had been interrupted during lunchtime - empty but thick with the promise of returning workers. It took two hours to find food because the place had been recently scouted. This was something he was getting used to, finding empty places robbed of anything useful. Everything was being repurposed. He chuckled when he was scouting for houses and saw one with all the glass taken out of the window panes. After packing into the car as much canned food as he could find in the factory, he drove on until he spotted an abandoned farmhouse. They stayed in one of the worker's quarters at the back of the property, to avoid being spotted from the road. The world fell silent and Koketso saw hardly any people; when he did, it was on the road and he avoided eye contact with the faces in the passing vehicles. Once, he thought he heard voices coming from a house he was about to scout. The trouble of killing a Ghost wasn't worth it, so he moved on to another house. Over time, houses were reverting back to nature. Those who once lived in them could never have imagined their homes covered by curtains of grass and vines. Pavements were one-third concrete and two-thirds whatever was being suppressed beneath it. Nature was no longer something confined to game farms or manicured to look acceptable. Koketso realised this when he saw a hippo taking a leisurely stroll in a street he was driving along. 'Those damn animal rights activists HAD to release all the animals on game farms and in zoos,' Koketso said to himself, equally annoyed and amused. The hair on Koketso's head grew as wild and thick as the vegetation he saw. His mother had always insisted on short hair because only 'MaRasta and these boys who like drugs' had long hair. Some neighbourhoods had water, others didn't. Electricity was a luxury that Koketso had never really become accustomed to anyway, so he always had a Primus stove in the back of the car. He bathed in cold water and only used paraffin for the stove if there was nowhere to make a fire. Koketso didn't like to leave Steven in the coffin all day but often it was a necessity. He had tried driving with him in the passenger seat but that ended up with Koketso being bitten by Steven, and a few scratches on the side of the car. Some nights he would have to leave his best friend locked up in the coffin, if he was driving through the night. On those nights his stomach would ache and Koketso would just keep driving until he could breathe again. At the back of the farmhouse, he lit a fire and propped Steven up against a tree. The shock of his friend not dying from starvation never went away. 'Aaah mara wena, san. You're really gonna make me carry you in a coffin with me for the rest of my life?' Koketso laughed like he was having a conversation with a responsive person. Steven just managed to grunt and sway a little. Every night was like that – a soliloquy peppered with hope but never a response from Steven. The loneliness had turned Koketso into a person who gave running commentary on his every move. His invisible audience was a constant companion, so even when Steven did mutter something, it was missed. Koketso was rubbing oil on vegetarian sausages and giving his best TV Chef impression: 'Now I picked these sausages because the meat ones were putrid and these ones seemed to be okay. Nyaope boys have turned us into vegetarians; health conscious and on the run. Rub oil on the sausage, like so. Drizzle just a little ...' Koketso stopped and looked at Steven. It had finally happened - he'd known it was just a matter of time until the things inside his mind jumped out into the material world and he finally lost his fragile grip on reality. Steven's vacant eyes were focused on the stars above them. Koketso opened his mouth to say something else when he heard a mumble coming from where Steven was sitting: 'Heh monna, are you speaking?' The words he heard left Koketso in tears; the words were mashed up in an undead mouth, but he heard them. He dropped his vegetarian sausages and fell off the bunk stool he was perched on. Steven stared vacantly at the scene in front of him. Three words inspired hope and desperation: 'O senya oil.' It was nothing profound or even remotely touching. Steven, the gifted culinary genius, scolded his friend for wasting grapeseed oil. Somewhere inside the Ghost was a stubborn young man who fought the rot and emptiness, just to stop the wasting of grapeseed oil. Koketso crouched in front of the swaying shell of the person that was his friend and touched his hand. 'Okay, Gordon Ramsay wase kasi. I'm gonna keep cooking bad food until you get better.' With that, he sat back on the bunk stool, picked up the sausages from the floor, dusted them off and held them over the fire with braai tongs. The sausages were oily but tasted like they had expired only in theory. 'Maybe I should have listened to you about the oil, but I doubt anything could make this crap taste good.' Steven grunted, to which Koketso answered, 'Ja okay. Maybe I should have just had peanut butter on a spoon. I'm not the cook here. You are.' His lonely voice tapered off into the starry night until all that was left was the sound of crickets and frogs. Koketso knew that he was the first to notice the Ghosts. His stomach still ached when the pressure of living among them grew overwhelming. Trust died when the president dispatched the army to catch and 'cure' (a euphemism for incinerating Ghosts). Small human rights groups protested the killing of people just because they were ill, and innocent victims died in the crossfire. People hiding in their own homes were mistaken for Ghosts. TV stations stopped broadcasting and radio stations played emergency automated playlists until one day there was nothing on radio. Koketso was now on the run with his Ghost friend - he was not ready to give up on Steven. They avoided strangers, the army and houses that could be seen from the road. The world was grey for some but for Koketso the sky was a sweet Azure, and even the dying grass in front of the abandoned mansions was Mellow Yellow. Some days when Steven seemed to be sleeping, the colours faded but it didn't bother Koketso because he was never vibrant to begin with. Somewhere inside the Ghost mind, he knew Steven was trapped. At least that's what he wanted to believe because the places where Steven had bitten him were beginning to itch a little. He had been bitten when he first tied Steven up and a few times after that when he carried him out of the coffin and into the moonlight. The skin around the bite marks was turning Mauve with a Green tinge to the outlines. The colours glowed a little in the dark and Koketso liked it, even against his better judgement. He looked up at Steven and swore he saw a crooked, tired smile on his grey, sunken-in face.