Jaz & Miguel Read Free Page A

mother's funeral—Lebo had been
his sister's name, short for Lebogang—just as Sandile had gone to Miguel's. But
whereas Miguel's mother's funeral had only left him depressed, Lebo and her
mother's had actually uplifted him.
    The traditional Xhosa funeral (the first time Miguel had ever been
to one) was huge . It was like the whole friggin
township arrived, with people eating an unspiced cow beforehand, and elders
speaking wise words (which Miguel, unfortunately, did not understand) and then
burying the dead with some food and anything else that could "help them on
their way."
    But the clincher had not been the funeral, it had been the
celebration they'd held a year later— umbuyiso is what it's called: an event to celebrate that the deceased had now returned as a true
ancestor, come home to help the living. And during Lebo and her mother's umbuyiso ,
everyone celebrated.
    Miguel had gone to that one as well. He'd never seen people so friggin
happy about someone who had died. He was happy, too. It brought tears to his
eyes.
    He wasn't sure if they'd been tears of joy, or sadness for the fact
that he, too , wanted his mother and sister to
return as ancestors to watch over him, just as Lebo and her mother would now be
watching over Sandile and his people. It had vaguely crossed his mind that, if
it were true, that his mother's burial had not been done correctly, and that
she and his sister had not been given the sendoff they'd needed so that they could come back as ancestors as well.
    It worried him.
    Miguel later learned that the Xhosa have no word for depression .
Instead, they use the phrase umoya phansi meaning "low energy of
spirit." It was enough to make the man fucking religious. Not crazy
religious—like, none of that no-sex-before-marriage stuff—but, heck, it was an
eye opener on the subject of life and living and there being a higher power and
stuff. And Miguel figured the higher power wasn't Catholic or Jewish or Muslim
or even a friggin ancestor. Its name wasn't Jehovah or Allah or whatever people
called it. And it wasn't a man or a woman. Miguel just knew— sensed —that there must be something more. There just had to be.
    Africa had always been special to him. No matter what happened in
it, the sun always rose the next day.
    It would rise for him again, he knew it. It would rise for his
mother and his sister again.
    He had to believe this.
    That day could not have been the end, just like that ... in that way
... for the two of them.
    He shook his head and got up. He needed to leave.
    Before going, he climbed up the stairs to his father's bedroom and
peaked in the door. He saw the bulge that was his rounded father underneath the
bedding and heard the gentle nasal sound of his peaceful snore. For a moment, as
he stood there watching him, he wondered if his father would ever find someone
else, but then thought no more of it, not really knowing how he felt about
that—feeling more like, if it did happen, that it would simply be another one
of those inevitabilities of life that he'd simply learn to live with.
    Things weren't good or bad or shit or crap or great or wonderful or
happy or joyful or lucky or unlucky. Things just
were. Life just happened. It was his job to take it as it came, learn to live
with it.
    He went to his bedroom and pulled out some money from the brown
envelope he still kept under his socks in his drawer. He'd started doing that
after Sandile wasn't able to pay one of his drug-debts (another time, another
life) and had come over to Miguel's house, banging at the door, desperate for
cash. Loaning it to Sandile hadn't been a problem. We all make mistakes, and
Miguel hadn't been Mr. Innocent in the area of smoking it up either, even if he
had never taken any of the hard stuff like Sandile had. But driving to the ATM
to withdraw two grand at one a.m. had caused Miguel to break more than a slight
sweat.
    And, even though those habits and days were as far off for both of
them as the equator