Emergency

by Thabo Jijana

Somewhere in a squatter camp,

a door yawned open and a man

appeared at the doorstep, seen

only in silhouette as only the faint

light coming from behind him was what

alerted the mosquito quietly gliding

past him and into the house; if by

any misfortune of sorcery, you had

been transmuted to a small person

on the back of that mosquito, grabbing

onto its back for dear life with your small

arms, you would see the man raise a

hand to his mouth and retrieve a broken

tibia bone from the drumstick he was

chewing, throw it out on the sandy

ground before him and pick up a

chicken wing from the smeared plate

he held with his other hand. You would

hear a woman’s voice going, “Quickly

my love, the mosquitos.” Too late, you 

would think. By now the man will be

chewing the last bits of the bones. 

He will spit the bits onto his hand

and throw out that too. And just as

he turns to go into the house, he will

hear growling, low and steady,

then some chomping. “They’re at it

again,” he will say for the woman’s benefit. 

“Who?” the woman will say. “MamNgwe’s

dogs,” the man will say. “They’re quick, 

those two.”  Quicker than an ambulance, 

you will say. But of course, they would have

not heard you two come in.

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Thabo Jijana, whose work is informed by his rural upbringing in eastern South Africa, is a journalist by trade. He lives in Port Elizabeth, on the Eastern Cape Province.