to his knowledge in the exercise of his profession or in daily commerce with men, which ought not to be spread abroad, he will keep secret and will never reveal. If he keep this oath faithfully, may he enjoy his life and practise his art, respected by all men and in all times; but if he swerve from it or violate it, may the reverse be his lot.
Joseph followed along in the programme. The Hippocratic Oath. The contortions of translation made the xeroxed pamphlet seem almost archaic. Was this who Dr Lionel Banda was? Never doing harm? Keeping himself from the pleasures of love? Joseph kept turning back to the colour photo of his father on the front, an old one with full cheeks and shiny teeth and turmeric skin, a fallen eyelash on his cheekbone like a parenthesis. Joseph felt a prick in his chest. Dad was dead.
The feeling was short-lived. By the time the speeches commemorating Dr Banda’s professional triumphs had gone on for an hour, Joseph had stopped listening. He felt bored and hungry – he hadn’t eaten breakfast. When he stood up for yet another hymn, static burst in a loud hush behind his eyes. He felt light and heavy at once, as if gravity had reversed…
He woke to too many hands and eyes on his body – doctors trying to outdo each other in caring for the dead man’s son. Ba Grace was at his feet, shouting instructions at random. His mother was at his head, Farai in her arms. She looked more annoyed than concerned.
‘Y’alright, luv?’ Her accent sounded oddly British. It was the first she had looked at him today, or since she had arrived, really. He nodded and sat up. Everyone clapped, which felt wrong somehow. As the crowd of people around him dispersed, Ba Grace helped him to his feet, admonishing: ‘You must have tea in the morning so your stomach does not eat itself!’
‘God is punishing you,’ Grandpa Ronald whispered sardonically as he passed.
He meant for being an atheist. It was true that for the past many Sundays, while Grandpa and Ba Grace had gone off to church, Joseph had stayed home to read to Gran – the Guardian mostly, book reviews and editorials. This was more out of sloth than a firmly held position. But now, in the cathedral, Joseph felt so dizzy that he wondered if Grandpa was right. He sat on a bench against a side wall, his ears hot and blocked. Foodlessness foolishness feint faint fatigue.
The mourners began filing past the open casket. Joseph saw Salina go by, stoical and alone, casting barely a glance at the corpse. He joined the line behind Gran and his mother, Farai still in her arms. When they got to the casket, Mum buried her head into Gran’s chest and pulled Farai’s head into hers, making three nested curls of their bodies as they moved past. Gran couldn’t see; Mum didn’t look. Joseph stepped up to the casket. He was almost surprised to find his father there. Dad looked small in his fancy box, unworthy of all this spectacle, his face rubbery and shrunken, a pretender’s mask.
* * *
A week later, Joseph went with his mother and grandmother to the Barclays at Woodlands to sort out the burdensome inheritance. Salina had left. Most of the relatives had vanished, too, as soon as they learned that the deceased’s distributable possessions were in Addis Ababa. At the bank, they found a long queue, so Mum asked for the manager, a woman she knew from Zambia Airways.
‘Thandiwe!’ said a plump woman in a tight business suit. ‘Gosh, it’s been ages.’
‘Brenda, how are you?’
A flurry of air-kissing in a cloud of clashing perfumes.
‘You’ve stayed so thin!’ Brenda said admiringly.
Mum smiled wanly and introduced Joseph and Gran.
‘Lovely to meet you.’ Brenda’s eyes lingered over Gran’s white stick and closed eyes. ‘So howzit, Thandi? I heard you moved to London, lucky fish! How’s your handsome doctor of a husband?’
Mum cast her eyes down.
‘Oh, my deeya. What has happened?’ Brenda guided Mum and Gran into a booth.
Joseph sat by himself on a bench in the lobby, which stunk of midday torpor. Officious tellers ticktocked by in high heels while customers, mostly glum men in cheap suits, shuffled the queue along. Twenty minutes later, Gran and Mum reappeared with a stack of files.
It was lunchtime so they shifted to the Chicken Inn next door, Joseph guiding Gran by her upper arm, all loose jelly in thin skin,