I GOT MONEY RATS FROM MOZAMBIQUE,NOW I LIVE IN FEAR

I GOT MONEY RATS FROM MOZAMBIQUE,NOW I LIVE IN FEAR

I confess. This is my story from Tembisa. I write it in simple words. I want you to feel the fear I live with and the money that comes easy, but at a price.

There is a busy tavern near my street. People go there after work. The music is loud. The beer is cheap. The place is always full. I used to stand at the door and watch them. I learned their pockets. I learned their dreams.

I did not get rich by my hands. I have money rats. They came to me from Mozambique, or so I say. They are small and quick. They do not look like normal rats. When night falls and the tavern is loud, my rats move in the crowd. They take the small bills from tables. They slip coins from pockets. They bring the money home, one small bundle at a time.

At my room I keep a box. I call it the ritual box. Only the rats and I know where it is. It sits under my bed. It is old. It is dark. When the rats come back, they put the money inside. The box feels heavy with the small notes. The rats clean their paws and sleep. I lock the door and sleep too.

I used to work at a petrol station in Kempton Park. I woke early. I stood in the sun. I filled cars with petrol. I earned a small wage. The work was honest. But then the rats came. The money they brought was more than my job. I quit the petrol station. I tell myself I chose a soft life. The money is easy. I buy nice food. I sleep late. The world looks easier.

But the money has rules. The rats do not work for free. They ask for things. At first I gave them bread and milk. I sang to them. I left a small piece of meat on the floor. The rats seemed happy. They grew bolder. The money came faster.

Then I crossed a line. I thought I could control everything. I wanted more. I asked for a promise from the spirits that guide the rats. I gave something that I thought was only a sign. It was a binding thing. I called it a sacrifice. I did not hurt with my hands. I spilled blood. I gave my brother’s wife up as the sacrifice,a bad fate in my spell. I told the story to the rats while they listened. I locked that night in my head.

Since then I have not slept well. I hear steps in the walls. The rats whisper when the wind is right. I see faces in the steam of my coffee. The money stack grows, but my heart feels empty. People at the tavern lose their small change. They fight with a friend over an unpaid debt. They go home and there is less food on the table. I tell myself I am not the cause. I tell myself the rats decide.

It has been two years like this. The box has grown full. I told myself I would stop. I told myself I would close the box and walk away. But the rats do not let go. They want to keep feeding the box. They want more offerings.

They say the third year asks for a new gift. The old promise must be renewed. I look at my ex. She is not kind to me now. We broke up and the wound still bleeds. The rats whisper her name when the night is very quiet. They want me to give up her to them. I feel a strange cold when I think about it. I must make a choice.

 I will not tell you how to hurt. My choice now is of the heart. I must choose what to lose. Do I lose my old life and keep the money? Do I lose the box and let go of the rats? Do I lose the memory of my brother’s wife and live with the guilt forever?

I confess because the guilt grows heavy. I confess because I want someone to know the truth. Money that falls from the sky feels like a gift. But it is heavy with other things. It takes names. It takes sleep. It takes small joys until there is only the stack of notes and the hollow inside me.

If you ever see the tavern near my street, watch your pockets. If your change is missing, blame the night, blame the music, blame the rush of people. Do not blame the rats alone. They are only the hands. The man who opens the box is the one who made the promise.

I am a confessor from Tembisa. I do not ask for forgiveness. I only speak. Maybe saying it will make the box lighter. The rats still move when the moon is full. The box still waits under my bed.

Tonight I will sit with the box. I will touch the wood and listen. I must decide what the third year will mean. I will choose an offering that does not break a body. I will try to fix what is broken. But I am afraid. The easy money calls, and the rats are always ready.