be pouring into my mother’s ear. It was meant for the Land Rover, a machine, not for people. Grandma returned with the heavy metal can. She unscrewed the lid and poured a little of the liquid into a clay bowl. As she did so, my nose caught the rich, heady fumes.
“D’you really think it’s good for Mummy’s ear?” I ventured.
Grandma glared at me. “It’s strong enough to move that big car, isn’t it? So it must be better than sesame oil. Or do you have a better idea?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Well then, keep quiet. Who’s the medicine person around here anyway? If you had your way we’d leave your poor mother to die . . .”
Grandma warmed the bowl of gasoline over the fire, and poured a goodly dose into my mother’s ear. We stood back, holding our breath as we watched. For a second or so nothing happened, and then my mother started to splutter and cough horribly. An instant later she was heaving and clutching at her throat, her face a vivid red color. She kept trying to choke out some words, but her voice came out as a breathless, strangled croak.
I grabbed my mum’s arms, which were shaking violently, and put my ear close to her. “Water! Water!” she rasped.
I rushed out of the hut and grabbed a bowl of water. I watched in mounting panic as my poor mother gulped it down, and an instant later it all came up again. My mother clutched at her stomach and her throat in agony. All that day she lay on the bed getting steadily weaker. Her breath came out in short, wheezing gasps, and nothing would stay down. I was worried that she was going to die. It was terrifying.
When my father came home that evening he was beside himself with anger. He kept marching up and down the yard, cursing under his breath. “Stupid woman! Stupid woman! That stupid, stupid woman.” He meant Grandma, of course, but I couldn’t understand a word of what he was saying. He was cursing Grandma in English so that she wouldn’t understand and be offended. It was only years later when I started learning English at school that I realized what he had been saying.
All night long my mother was retching and struggling to breathe. At the crack of dawn my father was up and about, preparing to drive her to the hospital. He carried her out of the yard and laid her across the two front seats of the Land Rover. I was sick with worry and I wanted to go with him. But he told me that I had to stay behind and look after little Mohammed. With barely a wave goodbye he set off on the long drive to the nearest large town.
The following evening my father returned. He was grim-faced and exhausted, anxiety etched across his features. My mother was very sick, he explained. The gasoline had gone down the narrow tube that connects the ear to the throat, and from there it had got into her stomach and her lungs. She would be in the hospital for many weeks, although the doctors hoped she would make a full recovery.
Later that night my father took me on his knee. He stared into the fire-light, worry in his eyes. “That Grandma of yours, Rathebe. . . . You know, she believes in some stupid things. Some of them are so wrong, yet can anyone tell her? Of course not. She’ll never listen, so she’ll never change her mind.”
I told my father that we needed a doctor in our village, a proper one like they had at the big hospital. Otherwise, Grandma might end up killing someone. That made my father laugh. There was nothing he could think of that the village needed more, he said. It would be a real blessing. The next day I told Grandma what my father and I had decided.
“What rubbish!” Grandma snorted. “A doctor! What do we need a doctor for? What use are people who just read books?
I
can cure most things, and with the help of the Fakirs . . .”
Three months passed before my mother was well enough to come home. Even then she had to rest in her hut and wasn’t allowed to expose her damaged chest to the smoky cooking fire. This was the time that I
“D’you really think it’s good for Mummy’s ear?” I ventured.
Grandma glared at me. “It’s strong enough to move that big car, isn’t it? So it must be better than sesame oil. Or do you have a better idea?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Well then, keep quiet. Who’s the medicine person around here anyway? If you had your way we’d leave your poor mother to die . . .”
Grandma warmed the bowl of gasoline over the fire, and poured a goodly dose into my mother’s ear. We stood back, holding our breath as we watched. For a second or so nothing happened, and then my mother started to splutter and cough horribly. An instant later she was heaving and clutching at her throat, her face a vivid red color. She kept trying to choke out some words, but her voice came out as a breathless, strangled croak.
I grabbed my mum’s arms, which were shaking violently, and put my ear close to her. “Water! Water!” she rasped.
I rushed out of the hut and grabbed a bowl of water. I watched in mounting panic as my poor mother gulped it down, and an instant later it all came up again. My mother clutched at her stomach and her throat in agony. All that day she lay on the bed getting steadily weaker. Her breath came out in short, wheezing gasps, and nothing would stay down. I was worried that she was going to die. It was terrifying.
When my father came home that evening he was beside himself with anger. He kept marching up and down the yard, cursing under his breath. “Stupid woman! Stupid woman! That stupid, stupid woman.” He meant Grandma, of course, but I couldn’t understand a word of what he was saying. He was cursing Grandma in English so that she wouldn’t understand and be offended. It was only years later when I started learning English at school that I realized what he had been saying.
All night long my mother was retching and struggling to breathe. At the crack of dawn my father was up and about, preparing to drive her to the hospital. He carried her out of the yard and laid her across the two front seats of the Land Rover. I was sick with worry and I wanted to go with him. But he told me that I had to stay behind and look after little Mohammed. With barely a wave goodbye he set off on the long drive to the nearest large town.
The following evening my father returned. He was grim-faced and exhausted, anxiety etched across his features. My mother was very sick, he explained. The gasoline had gone down the narrow tube that connects the ear to the throat, and from there it had got into her stomach and her lungs. She would be in the hospital for many weeks, although the doctors hoped she would make a full recovery.
Later that night my father took me on his knee. He stared into the fire-light, worry in his eyes. “That Grandma of yours, Rathebe. . . . You know, she believes in some stupid things. Some of them are so wrong, yet can anyone tell her? Of course not. She’ll never listen, so she’ll never change her mind.”
I told my father that we needed a doctor in our village, a proper one like they had at the big hospital. Otherwise, Grandma might end up killing someone. That made my father laugh. There was nothing he could think of that the village needed more, he said. It would be a real blessing. The next day I told Grandma what my father and I had decided.
“What rubbish!” Grandma snorted. “A doctor! What do we need a doctor for? What use are people who just read books?
I
can cure most things, and with the help of the Fakirs . . .”
Three months passed before my mother was well enough to come home. Even then she had to rest in her hut and wasn’t allowed to expose her damaged chest to the smoky cooking fire. This was the time that I
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