When The Avocado Tree Dies

Her hand trembled as she poured the boiling water into her mug. As she dropped a teabag into the mug, the rooibos teabag turned the water into a deep red-brown colour, the scent inviting and comforting. She let her special blend sit for about five minutes before bringing her pink-and-red polka dot mug to her split lips. Tumi was extra careful not to hurt herself any further. Tea in hand, she turned to balance herself carefully against the oak cabinet. She examined the wreckage and remnants from last night. Her breathing laboured and calculated so as not to hurt her ribs. Passion met pain last night as Tumi's husband, Pule, came home distraught, his team losing two-nil to their old rivalry at the infamous Soweto Derby. Doors slammed, breath heavy as he made his presence felt. She knew, she had mentally prepped herself.

Tumi was a first year student at the University of Johannesburg when she met Pule who was a Masters student, working on his dissertation and the President of the SRC. She and her friend, Linda, were always giggly at the sight of him. A majestic tall, smart man who always seemed sure of himself. His confidence oozed as he walked past. It wasn't until the end of the academic year, that Pule approached Tumi and confessed how he felt about her. They got married five years later and have now been together for almost eight years. Pule's love for soccer came from his background as a small boy from Soweto. The rivalry between the two Soweto giants had always fascinated him. Heated debates ensued whenever Pule was around fellow fans of his team and fans of the rival team. The derby was the showpiece of the Premier Soccer League and he never missed a match no matter how busy he was. His parents' home had a flag of their favourite team stuck on their front porch, flying proudly at each and every Derby match. Tumi was not from a Soccer loving background. Infact, she preferred a quieter sport, Tennis, over the noisy soccer. She just happened to support her husband's team out of pure love. Face paints and Vuvuzelas at hand, they'd make their drive to the FNB stadium and the mood would be as electric as ever. The wins were amazing, the couple would drive to local taverns or pubs for short debriefs with fellow fans. The losses, not so much. Yellow and Black filled the pubs most of the time after a win and Black and White took over when the "Boys of Peace" fans went home early to lick their wounds.

Some were lucky to go home and lick their wounds, while Tumi was faced with a monster. Last night was no different. Her body took the blame for a lose she could've not predicted. But that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Wincing, she walked carefully around the shards of broken glasses. She had sealed her own husband's fate. The eight hours drive back to her home village was worth the pain. The relief she would feel tonight afterwards, the safety this trip promised her made her teary eyed.

The muddy, gravel road always filled with men riding donkey carts laden with adventurous small children was always a sight everytime Tumi made a special visit home. The crisp clean air hit her nostrils and reassured her of the blanket of safety the village will throw around her cold and unsafe shoulders. The village brought so many memories to Tumi. One of which gave her a pang on her stomach. Being away in the city meant burying her past deed deep at the back of her mind. But now the memory from that night came flooding through her mind.

That night at eighteen years of age, she trudged down a distance to reach the old lady's hut. The only window, small, was lit. It meant she was still up concocting remedial teas. Teas meant to heal the frail and sick, give relief to stranded teens and put bad men to their eternal sleep. The hut had a small dilapidated green door, a thatched roof and just one small window that only opened when the smell of the sacred blends got a tiny bit strong.

Her gogo fed the fire inside the old heavy black coal stove more coals. She watched as the old lady remove one of the four iron plates with an iron lifter, a slender iron stick, to expose the pot to opened flames. She placed the blackened pot directly over the opened fire. The coals inside the stove were crackling. The herbs she'd foraged out by the riverbed created a strong stench inside the pot, the hut and Tumi's nostrils. Someone standing from afar could see the smoke coming from outside the chimney and into the dark starry night.

When Tumi's car screeched near the gate, her old grandmother could only lift her eyes from the reed mat she was weaving under the humongous avocado tree. The avocado tree predicted to die as soon as its owner dies. Tumi dusted her Zara jeans and slowly made her way to the old lady.

"Look what my late mother has brought me back home" Tumi's grandmother enthused.

"You're always exaggerating Gogo."

"How have you been in that big city?"

Tumi cast her eyes on the rich red sand.

Gogo stood up. That was all it took for her to throw her reed mat aside and head to the hut. Tumi followed.

"What has that city boy done now? Caused you more pain?" She asked.

"I've exhausted my mercy and understanding. I know it's time."

The heat inside Gogo's hut was thick and unbearable and smelled of nothing but ash from the coals that burned before. It was smaller and more compressed than Tumi last remembered. With her hands tucked at the small of her back, Gogo made her way to the stove with deliberate steps. Her old shoes tucked under her heels made Tumi feel maternal towards her Gogo. She headed to the stove, lifted the 'chest' of the stove and began waking up the old black beast using coals and papers to help catch the fire. As the papers and coals began cackling, Gogo used the iron lifter to expose the rumbling flames and quickly set the pot on top. She threw in a handful of her special 'sleeping men' concoction and a jug of water. No words were exchanged between the two, just a conversation using their eyes.

The sharp and metallic scent stung Tumi at the back of her throat and made her eyes water.

The drive back to the city was somber and quiet. Tumi's thoughts wrestled with one another. Should she or should she not put her husband to permanent sleep? Would the guilt be immense or would it feel almost like revenge? All this made her wry and anxious. She felt, at times, like throwing the blue flask nestled on the passenger seat of her car, out the window. Her thoughts travelled back to her second year at varsity during the shutdown of the main campus when students protested against their current Student Representative Council. The deputy president was accused of sexual assault by more than a dozen students across all faculties. Tumi remembered how her Pule stood tall and did everything in his presidential power to discredit those young girls. How scarred and traumatised those girls were, brought enough anger to diffuse all the guilt Tumi was feeling about the tea.

Her thoughts were disturbed by a ping message from her phone. She ignored the flash from her phone. She was closer to home anyway.

In the kitchen, she laid her special blend on the table. Her grandmother had specifically told her how to brew this concoction. "Two hours on the stove on low heat." The old lady was firm.

At night as Tumi poured the tea inside Pule's favourite mug, as she closes the windows around the kitchen she had opened during the pungent smell that covered the entire room. She had no worries about the taste. This was a conniving tea. It smelled horrid but tasted sweet and comforting like rooibos tea. That's the magic Tumi's Gogo's hut possessed.

Tumi sank into the kitchen chair as the steam rose from the navy blue mug with the 'best son' words written on it. Her phone pinged. A short text message from Pule:

"Will be home late. With the boys at the tavern for a quick debrief of the loss. Don't wait up!!"

Tumi stared at the mug. She didn't breathe nor stand up right away to pour it down the sink. She watched the cup, sure that the liquid inside was cooling off now. She wondered whether her Gogo's magical hut was already doing its wonders from afar. Exactly thirty minutes later, the silence was broken. Not by the car pulling up the driveway, but by her phone ringing loudly. It had startled her.

"Is this Mrs. Motha?" The voice asked as the sirens blared in the background. The sound of the city that never sleeps, even for bad men. "There was an altercation at the tavern. A volatile disagreement involving your husband... shots were fired. An off duty officer... Ma'm, you need to come down to identify the body."

The click of the phone was loud. Tumi was silent, her eyes stayed glued to the blue mug. She stood up, her ribs still ached, reminding her that it's been hours not days since. She picked up the blend, took two steps and emptied the sleeping liquid down the sink.