Chapter OneMy grandmother Gogo's voice is in my head even before Zi throws the firsthandful of dirt on her grave. Don't forget your promise, Khosi. Don't forget.The dust chokes my throat as I turn away. A speck of dirt flies into my eyeand I rub raw. Water drips down my cheeks. Even the woman ululating and the calland response of the others in the crowd, mourning the loss of my grandmother,can't drown out her voice.You promised, Khosi. You promised. Don't forget.It's true, before she died, I promised Gogo exactly two things. They seemedsmall at the time. If I'd known what it meant to make those promises, I would havekept my mouth shut. But I said yes. And now I can't back out. The dead have accessto me twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. They hound me with theircommands. Do this. Do that. Go there. Fetch that. And Gogo's dead now. So I have noescape. She will harass me until I do what I said I would do, even if it's impossible.I take my sister Zi's hand. She looks up at me, total trust reflected back in hereyes.She's nine. I'm only seventeen but I'm all she has left, Mama dead for threeyears, and Gogo three days now. Baba has never been involved in our lives, even lessso after Mama passed.OK, Gogo. I'll keep my promise. I'll keep it, even if it kills me.3Chapter TwoWe make a procession from the cemetery to the house, walking up and downImbali's dirt roads. Winter is dry, the roads covered with a thick centimeter ofreddish-brown earth.Most of the neighborhood and all of my grandmother's family are here,dressed in their funeral best. Mama's sister's family walks in front of us, AuntiePhumzile dressed in her Zionist church service finery--a white turban woundaround her head, white blouse and green skirt, a maroon cape wrapped around hershoulders. My cousin Beauty, too, is dressed in an expensive new dress, and shewalks with her head held high. She barely acknowledged me when she arrived. Mymother's brother is dressed in his finest suit and he carries Khulu's walking stick,my grandfather's staff that was passed down to the new patriarch of the Zulu clanwhen he died.Zi and I are wearing white, like Gogo requested--simple, everyday clothes.My neighbor maDudu walks alongside us and clucks her tongue. "Didn't youand Zi buy new clothes for your grandmother's funeral?""We didn't have the money," I explain. "Anyway, Gogo chose these dresses forus to wear to her funeral. They were her favorites. She said she lived an ordinary lifeand she wanted her real life honored in that way.I remember her smile as she told me, "You arrive Mr. Big Shot but leave Mr.Nobody. I don't need an expensive funeral, eh, Khosi?'""Shame," maDudu says, agreeing with my decision, and nods her chin atAuntie Phumzile. "But that one, she will say you aren't showing proper respect."I bow my head and look at the ground. Of course maDudu is right, but Auntiewill be wrong if she says these things. This is how I offer respect to Gogo--byfollowing her wishes. And by keeping my promises to her, even though, only 72hours after her death, they already seem impossible.We turn the corner to our street and I stop for a moment, just to look at thepeople responding to Gogo's death.4In the past week, our yard was transformed so that we could host theneighborhood--a neighborhood Gogo has lived in for some forty years. We erecteda large tent where neighbor women have been preparing the funeral meal. Already,the neighborhood is queuing, a line of people stretching from the gate to the spazashop two doors down. The scent of fried chicken, rice, phutu, and cooked kale hitsmy nose long before I reach the yard.It feels like a betrayal to Gogo to be hungry but it's true, my stomach isgrowling. I need to eat now now. I have had just one or two slabs of phutu with alittle bit of sour amasi since she died, three days ago, a fact that Little Man haspointed out, worried that I'm going to collapse. "You need to eat, Khosi," he urgedme. "To keep your strength up for all you must face."But how could I eat , hearing all the rumors?I grip Zi's hand even tighter. I can't forget Auntie's face, her lips curling inanger as she demanded the right to go through Gogo's things and take what shewanted. "I am her daughter, I should have her clothes," she claimed. "It is tradition."I may be a sangoma and that means I am supposedly "traditional" and thinkthat is the answer to everything. But I must tell you, sometimes tradition cloaksthievery. Not that I cared about Gogo's clothes, but I would have liked to keep thesimple beaded jewelry and headdress, just to remember her.Instead, I have the house to remember her by, which presents a differentproblem. For now, all I must think about is making it through the funeral.Zi and I bypass the queue and head into the house, where family membersare already feasting. I scan the queuefor Little Man and his parents. To me, and toGogo, Little Man is family but I understand that nobody else recognizes that--yet--so he must stay outside with the others. Maybe someday, the rest of my family willunderstand that even if we are only 17, we have been together for three years, eversince Mama's death. He is much more than a boyfriend.Inside, there are no places for us to sit except the floor, so we take a cornerand wait for one of the ladies to bring us plates of food. I suppose we better get used5to sitting on the floor. My aunt also claimed the sofa in the living room and the tablein the kitchen. I'm hoping my uncle will step in and tell her no.I should be thinking about Gogo, about the loss, but my stomach is twistedwith fear. What's going to happen after all the food is eaten and the neighbors gohome? What is my aunt going to say then? Or will she even wait until after thefuneral? She is sitting on the floral sofa she wants, glancing at me from time to timeas she chews the meat off a bone."Mm mm, I'm just saying, why did my mama die so suddenly after she made awill and left the house to Khosi?" I overhear her say to Gogo's niece from the FreeState, who drove all night to get here for the funeral."Sho, is it?" The niece bites into a hunk of meat.I put my plate of food down on the floor, appetite gone."I'm sure Elizabeth's daughter would never harm a soul," the niece says. "Iknow she is a sangoma but she doesn't practice this thing of witchcraft, does she?""I never thought so, not while Mama was alive." Juice drips down Auntie'swrists as she mixes gravy with phutu and scoops it into her mouth. "But you neverknow with these sangomas, not these days. It is very suspicious that my mother diedso soon after she wrote that will.""What what what, you really believe she is umthakathi?"I've had enough. "Come, Zi," I say, and we stand and walk out of the house. Aswe pass, I hear my aunt cackle under her breath, knowing she's scored a pointagainst me.I slink outside, feeling like an unwanted dog in my own house. The crowd ofpeople waiting to eat is as long as ever and the yard is already festering with trashand flies. This is going to be some clean up job....I only hope my family members, thevultures who have descended for food and a chance to take all of Gogo's things, willstay long enough to help me clean up.After everyone leaves, Auntie sends her husband to borrow a friend's bakkieso they can take Gogo's sofa with them now-now.6"It's OK, Auntie Phumzi," I say. "It is late. Come back tomorrow. The sofa willstill be here."She laughs. "Oh, no, by then you will bewitch it. I must take it now, before youdo something evil like you did to my Mama.""I would never hurt Gogo," I say. I look from Auntie to my cousin Beauty andthen to my Uncle Lungile. "Beauty?" My cousin and I have always been different, inmany ways, but she and I are close in age and played together growing up. I wouldthink she is an ally. "Uncle?"The awkward moment stretches out like a pot of phutu and amasi that mustfeed too many mouths."Let us just focus on the future," Uncle says finally. He scratches his head, asthough trying to distract us from what he is saying. "Let us leave this thing behindus.""What thing?" I ask. "This thing of Auntie accusing me of something I wouldnever do? Do you really think I would hurt Gogo? Gogo, the only mother I had aftermy own Mama died?""Nooooo," Uncle says. "But you must listen to your Auntie."It is nonsense, what he is saying. If I did not kill Gogo through witchcraft, butthat is what she is saying, why must I listen to her? I can see I have lost my familythrough this."Take what you want." I am angry now. It burbles up in my chest, the sameanger I once felt towards Mama when I realized she stole money before she died. "Ido not care about things. I have Gogo's spirit with me, which is more than you willever have. And I have the house, you cannot take that."Somehow those words take Auntie from one thing to another, and in seconds,she is screaming. "We'll get the house back, you little witch," she yells. "You killedher! You killed her!""Phumzile!" Uncle Lungile shouts. "Quiet! You can't say these things, Mama isjust now buried...""Auntie," I say, pleading with her. I try to catch her eye but she refuses to lookat me. "We are family. We are blood. Please, let us just let this thing go away."7But she won't stop. She's in my face, shouting. "It will never go away!"I'm not afraid. I can see Khulu and Gogo in the corner, shaking their heads--at her behavior, yes, but also at me, warning me to let this go, not to retaliate. So it'strue, I'm not afraid. But my calm seems to convince her more than ever that I amguilty. I reach out to touch her forearm, to soothe her.She jerks her arm away and raises her hand to slap me. "Hheyi, wena, youkilled her. You killed her! You think we don't know what you have done? Hah!"My cheek tingles from her slap. But the hurt feels good. Not like this thing ofGogo's death, a sting that will never go away.Uncle Lungile grabs her by the arm and hauls her outside. She's stillshouting, and all the neighbors are gathering to watch. "Haibo! Go away or we willgive you something to talk about," Auntie yells at them.They move further up the hill but none of them stop watching. It is too good,this scene of family disarray. Even maDudu stands and watches this thing of myaunt accusing me of witchcraft.There are people who think it is powerful for others to believe you have thepower of a witch on your side, and I know there are those people who will seek myservices if they believe that. But it is dangerous. It is not some game to play.A long time ago, around the time Mama got sick with the disease of thesedays, Gogo Dudu employed a witch to curse our family. She did it because she wasangry. To our shame, my mama had stolen the insurance money after maDudu'shusband died, something we did not discover until after she died and I found themoney. It has sometimes made me wonder if Mama can even be an ancestor, theway my Gogo and Khulu are. Yes, I watched her join the rest of the amadlozi, but thatdoesn't mean she can speak to me and help me heal others.Auntie and Uncle stand a long time in the yard talking. Uncle holds her by thearm as if trying to prevent her from running away. She is talking so angrily, shedoesn't even notice that her turban has come askew.Her husband arrives in a borrowed bakkie and Uncle Lungile comes insideand says, "Khosi, the house is yours but you must leave just now. She will not comeinside if you are here but it is our tradition for her to take her mother's things."8So Zi and I stand in the back yard, near the washing bins where we wash ourclothes, while Auntie and her husband haul away the sofa and the table and chairs.They pack away most of the kitchen items, but leave us some few plates and forksand a pot for cooking. They leave us the beds and mattresses, for which I amgrateful. And the TV. Perhaps they leave the TV because it is old. Their TVs are allnew and this one wouldn't even fetch a good price if you tried to sell it in the streets.And then they leave, all of them, they do not even come to the back to saygoodbye or tell us they are done.I wonder if they will be back for more or if we have seen the last of them.

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Excerpted from Under Water by J. L. Powers
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.