Illness dogged our family, nervous ailments, a case of diphtheria, one of scarlet fever, even a death from infantile meningitis. But asthma reigned supreme, as our greatest scourge. It plagued mother and little sis to varied degrees, but it pursued big bro, relentlessly.
To unblock his choked up bronchial tubes, he used an inhalation pump, a weird looking contraption. It looked like an old hand operated petrol pump, with bellows instead of a lever. He shoved the nozzle into his mouth, squeezed the rubber bellows, and liquid from the see-through glass vial, atomised down his throat. The liquid, Bronchovydrine, contained some curative properties, but I’m sure that, the largest constituent by volume, they sourced from hospital dysentery wards. That stuff tasted like shit. After each spray, he ate five Spearmints. Pharmacists gave huge discounts on the Bronchovydrine, they made their money from the sale of the Spearmints.
This affliction shadowed big bro night and day. Without warning, his chest closed up, and he desperately struggled for breath.
‘Closed up tighter than a Dinky Toy’s exhaust pipe,’ dad once diagnosed.
When the bronchials decide to shut up shop, inhaled air remains trapped inside the lungs. Oxygen is absorbed, and the trapped air turns to poison. Occasionally he lost consciousness, and required prompt medical attention. It happened at school one day. Lucky for him, he hadn’t teased me that morning. I helped him. I loosened his tie, and shoved my fingers down his throat to keep his airway clear.
Though he denied it to the day he died, I swear that sometimes a mild attack occurred, just enough to raise an eyebrow of concern, immediately prior to paternal disciplinary intent.
Nevertheless, the disease remained a constant threat to the health of their eldest son, and dad and mother left no stone unturned in their search for a cure. They all had their turn, herbalists, sangomas, chiropractors and acupuncturists, but none succeeded. I know I said Bronchovydrine was disgusting, and that’s the truth. But, even then, if the merit of the prescribed potions depended purely upon their taste and smell, then these alternative practitioners certainly had the measure of the medical profession. A hand-written instruction pamphlet accompanied a remedy prescribed by one sangoma.
It read thus:
Ingredients:
Dead flies: - Two teaspoons, finely ground.
Rotted hyena carcass scrapings: - One handful, coarsely ground.
Sap squeezed from live bush pig’s testicles: - One cupful
Filings from rusted steel nails: - Five ounces.
Marrow from human shin bone: - Six ounces.
Horse urine: - Half pint, fresh.
Home brewed beer: - Half pint, stale.
Mixing instructions:
Bring horse urine and home brewed beer to the boil.
Add other ingredients.
Stir lightly.
Simmer for two hours.
Dosage Instructions:
Strap patient to chopped-down trunk of hardwood sapling, in prone position facing upwards, using plaited jungle vine (Not supplied.), or use stout rope.
Wedge funnel, made from any sturdy pliable material, down patient’s throat.
Pour in two tablespoons of potion, three times daily, after meals.
Contra Indications:
Known side effects: - Convulsions, headaches, nausea, vomiting, diarrhoea.
Unknown side effects: - Unknown.
Occasional side effects: - Blindness, paralysis, dementia, death.
Despite this constant remedial torture, big bro remained ill, and asthma remained his unwelcome companion.
At times, dad reverted, in desperation, to his favourite panacea, the dreaded daily tablespoon of Scotch Emulsion and Cod Liver Oil, supplemented with a weekly dose of Castor Oil. Mountains of soiled underpants filled the laundry basket during such phases of the treatment. The remedy undoubtedly served as a potent opening agent, but never proved its worth as a decongestant. As a child I possessed an unchallenged viral immunity, and it was directly proportionate to my fear of ingesting that awful combination.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast, they say, and hope rose in the form of a huge banner hoisted on the town square. It proclaimed that a world-renowned evangelist and faith healer from America planned to visit our town. Any evangelist worth his salt, hailed from America. He’d booked the rugby stadium to hold nightly revival meetings.
‘He’ll save your souls! he’ll heal your sick! He’ll cast out demons! HE’LL lead you to eternal salvation!’ the banner screamed.
Later, huge posters adorned every tree and lamppost, to confirm the message of hope. Cars with roof-mounted loudhailers cruised through suburban streets.
‘Repent or be damned! Your day of judgement is at hand!’ blasted the hailers.
‘Remember Sodom and GomorraH!’ they warned.
I didn’t remember them, but they sounded scary.
The fear of God gripped the city, and when the time came, saints and sinners alike, swarmed to the stadium. Our whole family, dressed up in Sunday best, and joyful at the prospect of final deliverance from all evil and disease, pressed through the crowd to vacant seats near the raised platform. From here we had easy access to the great man.
Seated on the platform, an ensemble of musicians played traditional evangelical music, while arms aloft, and crooning in harmonious unison, swayed a trio of sturdy-ankled Amazons. The music rose to a deafening crescendo.
‘Praise the Lord, Hallelujah!’ applauded the trio as one.
And there he stood, the great man himself, Pastor Bernie Nell, short, stocky and flanked by the imposing presence of two towering expressionless Samsons. Sodom and Gomorrah, I presumed.
He smiled at the gathered throng.
‘Say Amen!’ he said.
‘Amen,’ whispered the throng.
‘I said, say Amen!’ he ordered.
‘Amen,’ obeyed the reticent throng.
‘SAY, AMEN!’ commanded the pastor.
His powerful voice reverberated around the stadium. He lifted his arms up to heaven to call down the wrath of God upon all who disobeyed.
‘AMEN!’ screamed the terrified throng.
‘Amen, Amen, and Amen,’ echoed the pastor, as he lowered his arms to withhold that awesome wrath.
He read a veiled warning to the ungodly from the book of Acts of the Apostles. Then he spread his arms wide to encompass each and every soul present, and his voice rose to the level of a sonic boom.
‘YOU’RE ALL SINNERS!’ he accused.
Mother flinched. He was obviously unaware of her presence.
Then, his rasped voice unfaltering, he described an eternity in hell, which made all but the bravest of us cry out for mercy and salvation.
His lengthy sermon taught: ‘God hated drink, bars, lying, smoking, fornication and adultery. He abhorred theft, murder, wife beating, dancing, short skirts and low-cut dresses. He disapproved of makeup, g-strings and modern hairstyles.’
‘These are sins,’ Bernie warned. ‘And the wages of sin are unthinkable.’
I almost fainted with relief. He’d omitted truancy, fart lighting and masturbation from the index of sin, but my heart pulsed with dread at the mention of lying and smoking. I resolved to repent of these at God’s earliest convenience.
‘Yes, there’s still time to escape the terrible torment of everlasting hell,’ he said, ‘and that time is now.’
The sermon ended abruptly and the pastor fell strangely silent, exhausted.
Then he prayed,
‘Father, look kindly upon these faithful souls. Open their hearts and their pockets, so they may give freely and joyfully unto Thy work. And Lord, bless with Thy abundant bounty, those who give. Yea Lord, bless them ten-fold abundantly.’
Chequebooks appeared and wallets emptied. The aspirant faithful, and the tenfold-abundant hopeful, donated generously. They donated to the crimson velvet collection bags, extended on polished wooden handles by the ushers who shuffled among them.
The orchestra stirred, the plaintive strains of a favourite hymn wafted poignantly across the arena, while the trio of crooners sang softly, in humble worship. This emotive moment brought a tear to almost every eye in the stadium. In muted tones now, the evangelist invited the damned to approach.
‘Repent! I beseech you,’ he said. ‘Come forward. Come join the Shepherd’s flock.’
Sinners surged forward to receive absolution, and to stake their claims to a hereafter in paradise. Joyous praise and elation welcomed those who heeded the call.
The Pastor hadn’t finished with us yet. He looked skyward, and he looked back at the crowd. He closed his eyes and extended a clenched fist to the stars.
‘I CAN FEEL A HEALIN’ COMIN’ ON!’ he shouted. ‘THERE WILL BE A MIRACLE HERE TONIGHT!’
Then he swooned into the waiting arms of the Samsons by his side.
Our moment had come, and our hearts overflowed with anticipation as we raced forward to form the healing line. We should’ve been in front, but, by some supernatural providence, a deaf-since-birth boy, a lame child on crutches and a paraplegic outpaced us.
Pastor Bernie looked at the deaf-since-birth boy with compassion, and raised his right arm. Then, in perfect synchrony with a victorious drum roll of musical accompaniment, he struck the hapless fellow on the forehead with the heel of his hand.
‘BE HEALED!’ he said. ‘BE HEALED!’
‘I CAN SEE! I CAN SEE!’ shouted the boy.
Dazed by the blow, he sprinted hither and then thither across the raised platform. A sturdy-ankled crooner chased him down and subdued him. Pastor Bernie, I suspect, made a mental note to lobotomise the choreographer.
The crowd, blinded by the awe-inspiring moment, erupted in deafening praise for the miracle they’d witnessed. Pastor Bernie sensed their apparent ignorance of the condition, deaf-since-birth, and regained his composure. He acknowledged their applause with a regal wave.
The healer made short shrift of the lame child. His right arm flashed. The blow to her forehead lighter now, he couldn’t risk another loss of memory.
‘THROW AWAY YOUR CRUTCHES, AND WALK!’ he commanded.
She flung them away. The second Amazon dived to her left with lightning reflex. She won catch of the season, I think. The instantly healed child hop-scotched round and round, to the utter delight of the praise-singing band of new believers.
WHAM, BAM, THANK YOU MA’AM! The paraplegic rose from his chair-bound existence. He walked and he danced and he hugged the worker of miracles. Then he just ran off. To the next venue, I presumed, and I sensed dad’s growing doubt.
The crowd now cheered with unbridled passion. They expected an easy passage for the miracle maker at his next hurdle, a mere lad with chronic asthma. Flushed with success, Bernie, with the healing in his right hand, tried to move a mountain. He struck big bro on the chest.
‘BREATHE!’ he snarled.
Big bro, already in bronchial spasm from the excitement, gasped for breath, but none came. The astonished healer tried again. Big bro feinted to duck the coming blow, but Bernie, a practised campaigner, landed with a stunning right cross. Big bro went down. He never lacked courage. He rose on the count of eight and tried to ask for his pump, but no words could force their way from his seized-up chest.
Frustrated now, the agitated healer moved in for the kill, but his hand was stopped in mid strike, held in the cast iron grip of our family’s alpha male. Dad had seen enough. A gaze of steel, and a whispered word, sent the meekened evangelist scurrying for the dubious safety of an Amazon’s bosom. Sodom and Gomorrah formed a human shield of protection, to neutralise the threat from an enraged Hercules. Hercules stood only five feet seven inches tall, but for me, from that moment on, he stood ten feet tall.
Once becalmed, Hercules ushered my hysterical mother and sisters to the exit, while big bro and I followed in brave pretence.
But, the pastor was right; there was a miracle there that night. In fact, there were two. It was a miracle big bro didn’t kick him in his balls, and it’s a miracle dad didn’t kill me when I locked the car keys in the trunk.
© 2006 Harry Cronje
