Mthobisi Myeni
At least he’s rid of the pain now that he’s dead. I try to console myself as I frantically dig a small grave by the edge of our kitchen garden. Mama instructs me so with minimal eye contact between us but I manage to catch a glimpse of her tear-reddened eyes as she hastily turns for the house. We are all hurting.
When Snoopy returned home after going missing for more than fourteen months it was a bittersweet moment for the family. His disappearance had caused so much sadness for us. He’d left us a void that no other dog could ever fill. Snoopy’s spirited demeanour made him lovable – he was the apple of our eyes and the envy of the streets. We were very happy and relieved that our dog had returned to us alive after we had resigned ourselves to believing that he was long dead. But what returned home was a hollow skeletal shadow that fixedly stared absently into blank spaces with its lifeless eyes. His magic was lost. Our Africanis companion had only returned to give us closure; a chance to bury him. Whatever ordeal that Snoopy had endured during his absence had sucked all the juice out of him; he could only salvage enough strength to drag himself home. His return was short-lived. On the third day of his return, he died.
Mama had tried to nurse him back to life. She even travelled to town to get him the largest Nespray tin her medical aid could buy from the chemist, but Snoopy could only stare at the bowl of milk in front of him until it went stale. He wouldn’t have anything. Nespray was a childhood delicacy that we mostly enjoyed with our soft porridge during breakfast, or with cereal during those rare occasions that Mama had cared to include Corn Flakes in her shopping. Whenever everyone wasn’t anywhere near the kitchen, I’d quickly sneak in to steal a couple of spoonful scoops of the powdered milk. Judging by the speed at which the milk vanished from its container, I am certain that I wasn’t the only culprit. Surprisingly, none of us ever attempted to tamper with Snoopy’s Nespray – that is how much we wanted our dog to survive.
Snoopy spent his last three days confined in one place and not once did he move even though he wasn’t restricted. We couldn’t figure out if it was due to a lack of energy or if it was the psychological damage caused by being chained for a long period. The worn coat around his neck suggested that he had been tightly tied and that he had constantly struggled to free himself. He still had a part of the chain that he broke away from around his neck when he came back home. We decided to keep the chain. That dog was a natural fighter and it saddens me that he died a pitiable death lying on his own waste. During his heydays, you wouldn’t stumble upon Snoopy’s poop anywhere near the house the way he was so mindful of himself and his surroundings; he was rare, the last of a fading breed.
Nowadays, most Africanis dog breeds that I come across are nothing more than uncultured mongrels.
Snoopy’s untimely demise was a bitter pill to swallow. It was unforgivable; a tragedy.
I still remember the day Snoopy came into our lives. It was on a rainy morning. My siblings and I were still in bed even though it were a school day. Mama had come back with a lively Africanis puppy. It had a black coat with a straight texture, patches of white here and there with the most distinctive one around his left eye. Its naughty brown eyes often darted about. He came like a parcel – in a box with man-made holes for him to breathe seamlessly during the bumpy forty-five-minute bus trip from my grandparent’s homestead. Mkhulu had given the puppy to Mama because his bitch dog, Cheetah, ‘had birthed far too many puppies’ the third time around. Little did we know that the scrawny puppy who was surplus to requirements would later become our pride and joy. Snoopy became much more than a dog to us; he was family.
That dog was spoilt rotten by all of us. We fought for his attention with my siblings. With all the affection we showered him with, Snoopy consistently satiated it all by being a dream pet, to everybody’s delight. We discovered that the Africanis dog breed thrives upon freedom of movement, ample space, and human companionship – it shouldn’t be left unloved or confined.
“Where did you get this dog from?” my father had asked during one of his rare visits.
He was fondly drooling over Snoopy as the dog played ‘catch’ with my little brother.
Baba was in awe of Snoopy’s agility as he jumped high to catch the tennis ball thrown in his direction and happily returned it to the thrower. Snoopy’s well-muscled and healthy frame was a marvel to look at as he supplely went about his business.
“Maybe if you could lend him to me for a few months.” He had continued. “A dog of his calibre is being wasted here in the township; he should be catching rabbits in the forest.” He reiterated.
“Never! My dog is not going anywhere.” Mama had firmly put her foot down.
My father is a dog lover of note. He is a renowned breeder of dogs and an avid hunter. As long as I have known him, he’s always had dogs around him. I remember the last time that we had visited his house in the mountains and the man kept eleven dogs with him. One common thing they share with my maternal grandfather is that they have high regard for dogs – they treat them like humans, and I respect that about them.
Mama tells us that while growing up at my grandparents’, Mkhulu would make them give their supper to the dogs if they hadn’t left any food in the pots for them. A significant portion of my father’s budget is allocated to his canine champions too.
Although I knew that Snoopy would not suffer under the guardianship of my father, I was relieved that Mama hadn’t allowed it.
I just couldn’t imagine Snoopy with anybody else but us.
Snoopy got his name from my big brother. The name was inspired by the American rap musician – Snoop Dogg. It was around the early 2000s and we were just getting exposed to the music genre. Snoopy had lived up to his name in every sense because he was entertaining and nosy too, always popping up unexpectedly, snooping when least expected, and also making his presence hard to ignore when he felt like it.
Mama didn’t like it when we took Snoopy along during many of our childhood escapades because some mean people who hated dogs found great delight in throwing stones at him just for the thrill of it. I hated it when people swore or threw harmful objects at our beloved dog. But Snoopy loved roaming about and no matter how much we tried to reprimand him, he always found a way to discreetly tag along and only reveal himself when he was sure we wouldn’t turn him back. It was impossible to keep him out of trouble while we constantly found ourselves in it. Snoopy delved into trouble like a fish to water.
Talk about a knavish devil!
We eventually decided to let him be.
He became our partner in crime. We frequented and swam all the neighbouring rivers, dams, and lakes with him. We sneaked into people’s gardens and stole fruits with Snoopy. He raced alongside us across the veld. During a highly-contested football match against rival boys from surrounding villages, Snoopy would jump onto the pitch and chase after the ball too. In most cases, both teams would just stop and laugh – our tensions easing for a while.
In an environment where a dog that doesn’t belong to you is strongly detested and prone to deliberated permanent injuries, or even worse, dying from food poisoning, Snoopy was mostly received with respect, fear, affection, envy, and of course, hatred by others.
As Snoopy grew, it became clear that his energy levels and curiosity were becoming too much for us to handle. He was impressively maturing and regrettably developing annoyingly cunning habits. It was impossible to stay mad at him for a long time though. When he knew that he was in the wrong, he would pull his ears down and whine sadly with his tail wagging hesitantly between his legs, furtively searching for eye contact to assess the extent of belligerence before deciding if he’d come closer to lick your legs or just lay painfully in front of you.
Soon the dog was spending less time at home. Restraining him was out of the picture; we knew it’d be insufferable for him. When the mating season came, Snoopy only came back for food. He spent most of his time mingling with Maqatha’s malnourished dogs. Maqatha’s dogs were bothersome to the community, always soliciting mouthfuls of foul words from disgruntled residents. The people were undecided on whom they loathed the most between the master and his dogs.
Maqatha, a middle-aged illegal immigrant of shrewd skills from Mozambique, although he’s since adopted a local common surname – Mngomezulu, and quietly integrated himself into our welcoming community, is somehow of a fascination. A shady-looking man with a burly frame, a glistening navy-blue complexion, unkempt hair, bulgy bloodshot eyes, gigantic hands, greasy coveralls, and a husky voice. A misbehaving child quickly fixes their act at the mention of Maqatha’s name – the man’s notoriety is supreme.
A well-regarded hunter too; the man loves his meat.
Word was his dogs didn’t even get bones when they’d helped Maqatha catch some game. No wonder his dogs were knocking down every garbage bin on the streets and wiping out the neighbourhood’s chickens in ravish style.
Our worries about Snoopy’s newly-found company were warranted, after all.
Days passed by and Snoopy didn’t come back home. Initially, we didn’t panic because we knew that our dog always returned but as time went by, we began to ask around but to no avail. Meanwhile, Maqatha’s dogs continued to be seen, but without Snoopy, and that was puzzling and discouraging. Nobody could forcibly take our dog, we convinced ourselves. We eventually surrendered to the idea that Snoopy was maybe dead.
“I am certain I can hear my dog barking when I pass by Maqatha’s,” Mama said one afternoon when she returned from work.
We did not pay much attention to her. Instead, we dismissed her as someone who was just missing her dear dog. Maqatha’s house was just too close to ours for him to abduct our dog no matter how foolish he was, we reasoned. Also, it wasn’t that easy to enter his premises because of his hostility and his territorial mongrels who were rumoured to have rabies. The idea of going to search for Snoopy there did cross our minds but we just didn’t have the heart.
It is often said that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. I couldn’t agree more, especially if such knowledge gnaws your conscience. Years later, when I consider how Snoopy’s curious case later unfolded, I can’t help but affirm this notion.
Two days after Snoopy had returned home, word apparently got around that one of Maqatha’s dogs had broken away from its chain, and that it had rabies, therefore anyone with information was to notify the bogeyman immediately. Our favourite shortcut to school passed by Maqatha’s gate. My friend, Kunta, suggested an alternate route to school.
“I’m not trying to be bitten by some mad dog today,” he quipped.
“What mad dog?” I was surprised.
“Haven’t you heard about Maqatha’s dog that’s gone loose?”
“No.”
My mind raced back home to where Snoopy laid frail. Surely, they couldn’t be referring to him. Besides, no one but my family knew about Snoopy’s return.
“Yesterday Maqatha was up and down the streets, going from house to house, looking for his dog.”
“How come he never came to our house?” I wondered.
“He didn’t!?” it was Kunta’s turn to be surprised.
I only managed to shake my head.
“I overheard my aunty telling Ginger’s mom that Maqatha came by. Potoza too, your next-door, complained that Maqatha left cakes of mud on their carpet – apparently, he refused to take off his boots.” Kunta offered.
“Mmhhh, that’s interesting,” I purred in deep thought.
I was curious to know why Snoopy’s return coincided with Maqatha losing a dog. But what baffled me, even more, was the fact that Maqatha had warned everyone in the neighbourhood about ‘his lost dog’ but for us. Clearly, he was hiding something. Before I could fully ponder over this revelation, we were already at the school gate.
When the long-awaited school bell signaling an end to a rather long school day finally came, I couldn’t wait to get home. They had to hear this.
One admirable quality about Maqatha was his work ethic; he never shied away from chores that demanded toilsome labor. With the right motivation, that is meat and home-brewed intoxicant concoctions, Maqatha took to any task with unmatched vigor. He was our local handyman.
Around the same time that Snoopy had returned, Mama asked Maqatha to come and look at our leaking roof. The man kept postponing. His reluctance was somehow surprising and suspicion-rousing considering that the mention of warthog meat had been bandied about as enticement. Eventually, Maqatha succumbed to the temptation of rare meat. Pitching up some days later, he slowly made his way through the gate with an air of uneasiness about him, and his stagger exposed his tipsiness. I was sitting under the apricot tree. He walked towards me.
“Hey you piccaninny, tell Mama I’m here, make fast!” Maqatha’s hoarse voice catapulted me to the house in no time. I returned carrying two chairs with Mama in my tow.
“Sawubona Mngomezulu.” She politely greeted Maqatha, addressing him by his borrowed surname.
“No more cries now I’ve come for your roof.” He curtly replied.
I couldn’t help but notice Maqatha’s eyes furtively searching our yard. He was in no mood for pleasantries, and he seemed restless. Mama ignored all this and remained calm. Knowing her, she was definitely up to something. I eagerly observed from a safe distance.
“Are you in a condition to climb a step ladder though?” she asked worriedly.
Maqatha let out a retorted laugh. He slowly shook his head.
“You’re full of play Mama. Me, I’m no weakling. Original this one!” He proudly thumped on his chest. A resounding burp escaped his mouth.
“I’m afraid the meat I promised you is finished. I hoped you’d come much earlier.”
I witnessed a sudden facial transformation as the bogeyman painfully winced. He looked at Mama with a furrowed brow. He repeatedly licked his cracked thick lips. I could swear I saw tears well up in his bulgy red eyes – or maybe it was my own tears from the laughter I was holding back.
“A woman will kill a man without lifting a hand, it’s true.” He muttered dejectedly.
“I might have something to delight your rich palate, I think.” That was Mama’s attempt to save the day.
The only meat I knew of in our kitchen was that of an antelope that my father had brought us a few days back. Mostly when he’s hunted big game, he always brings us half of the booty.
Maqatha’s face lit up when he saw Mama exiting the house carrying a tray laden with rich meat.
“Ah Mama, now we speak!” he bellowed excitedly as he rubbed his giant hands together.
My mother smiled slyly.
By then, curiosity had entirely engrossed me.
Maqatha’s guard was temporarily abandoned, he was totally sozzled in oblivion, blindly feasting on his meat in fascinating art. Undecipherable sounds of relish occasionally escaped the big man’s nostrils as he dug in.
“You won’t believe where this meat came from.” Mama started.
“Mmhhh… “
That was Maqatha’s attempted cue to encourage Mama to continue. He didn’t even look up from his food.
She cleared her throat before proceeding with her story.
“A few nights ago, during one of our random power blackouts, it must have been around 10:00 PM, we heard a peculiar noise from our garden.”
She seemed to have his attention.
“The noise persisted and we eventually decided to go check it out. We had no torch. In the darkness, we managed to spot what looked like an antelope, it must have escaped from harm’s way because it was in a bad condition.”
“These useless dogs I raise is waste my nice food, can’t even smell a bloody ruminant on their doorstep,” Maqatha complained sorely.
“We had no choice but to skin it in the darkness before your dogs found it in the morning.”
“They wouldn’t leave me a bone those bastards. Is good you see it first.”
Mama laughed in mock fashion.
She then drew a piece of a chain from the pocket of her pinafore and held it up to Maqatha’s face. I instantly recognized it as the one that was around Snoopy’s neck when he returned.
“We found this chain around the antelope’s neck.” She announced.
Maqatha’s face turned stark white straight away. He was distraught with shock. His eyes looked like they were going to pop out of their sockets. He slowly put the tray of meat down. Stood up. Staggered towards the fence, and started to disgorge violently. He returned to his seat a different man. He had miraculously sobered up. He fixed Mama with a defeated gaze, and she returned it with a victorious one. Talk about a defeated man!
Maqatha quietly left, without bidding his goodbyes – his head almost buried between his slumped shoulders, and that was the last time he ever entered our home.
Soon the whole community knew about the comeuppance that had befallen the infamous Maqatha. Apparently, my mother had fed him dog meat. He earned himself a new nickname: Gwinyinja – the dog eater. Mama maintains that the moniker is befitting because the reality is that Maqatha killed Snoopy by devouring his soul, which reduced our dog to an empty vessel, and that is by far the worst of deaths. He robbed us of a companion.
Maqatha’s oversight to the obvious fact that companionship can never be stolen, that it is reciprocally earned, made me have zero regard for him as a man. No wonder he was like a stranger to his own dogs. Seeing him freely roam the streets like nothing happened aggravates the stubborn gash he inflicted on our family, always. I doubt this wound will ever heal.
Eighteen years later we still feel the void left by Snoopy. Nothing and no one can ever replace our dog because companionship is to life as the tongue is to mouth.
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