Siren

by Kuli Roberts

  Mabel had a lot of time to think about things, about how Richard and his wife had paid her off. What kind of people did that? Scared white people keen to maintain the status quo, the privileged few who knew that she could not make trouble for them without bringing a whole lot of trouble on herself. That knowledge tempered any vestige of gratitude she may have felt.

  And now they were still paying her off, ensuring her silence. In quiet moments, Mabel wondered how he justified the drop in income every month. Maybe he’d come clean, told his wife the truth, although somehow she doubted it.

  As the years passed, things changed. With Mabel’s world revolving around her business, her daughter grew, sprouting frizzy auburn hair, her skin darkening a little but not much. Graduating from crèche to school, Zinhle developed a mind of her own, and it wasn’t long before she was showing signs of an independent spirit. She wanted her own money, so Mabel gave her sweets from her stock to sell to her friends at school, and in this way the child carved out a little corner of her own.

  She must have been seven or eight, the evening she didn’t come home. The community was always so supportive, and people looked out for each other, but still Mabel harboured every parent’s fears. The sky was darkening and still there was no sign of Zinhle.

  Hadn’t she said she would be coming home with her friend Shoki? Yes, that was it; they often walked the short distance from school together and waited at Shoki’s place until it was time to come home. Still, she should have been back hours ago.

  At Shoki’s house, Mabel spoke to the girl and her mother, who told her that Zinhle had left for home a good hour before. Her levels of worry growing with every step, Mabel walked back, her head darting from side to side as she looked for her daughter down every street, on every corner. What could have happened? Surely somebody must have taken her. But who would do such a thing? It was all her fault, she reasoned. Concentrating on work had caused her to neglect her own child, and now she had lost her.

  Tears were rolling down her cheeks as she passed a house with the front door wide open. There were voices coming from within, children’s voices blending in with those of adults. One of those voices was instantly recognisable. Surely it was Zinhle – but it couldn’t be, because why would she be there? It must be a child who sounded like her, or maybe it was Mabel’s own anger and frustration playing tricks.

  Feeling like an intruder, she left the street and walked through the open door. Moving into the house, she could hear those voices again, mixing with others that sounded somehow artificial. Now she was in the living room, and at the far end there was a television, the screen radiating light into the darkened space. At least four children sat on the floor in front of it, with two women on the couch. Perched on the rim of the couch was another child, and there was no mistaking that frizzy hair tied up with elastic, hair Mabel had fixed that very morning.

  ‘Zinhle!’

  As her daughter turned to her, all the anger and frustration fell away, replaced by a profound feeling of gratitude that her child was safe.

  ‘Mama, I am watching,’ Zinhle said, gesturing towards the TV screen. ‘My friends told me to come and watch. There are two families and they are fighting, but I don’t know why. And these girls, they are so beautiful.’

  ‘Zinhle, you were supposed to be home ages ago.’

  ‘Sorry, Mama. Please don’t be angry, it’s just that television is so nice. Maybe we can get one.’

  ‘Maybe one day we will. Let’s go home.’

  As a relieved Mabel walked home with her daughter, holding her hand as if she would never let go again, Zinhle still had a lot to say.

  ‘That TV programme is so amazing. Don’t you think so, Mama?’

  ‘I suppose it is, precious,’ she said. From time to time, people had told her she should get a TV to watch as she waited for customers. It seemed like a reasonable idea, but somehow she’d never got round to it.

  And then her daughter came out with it: ‘One day I will be on the television.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘Like those actresses. I will be one of them. They are beautiful, but I will be beautiful too. One day I will be there on the television, and everybody will watch me.’

  ‘Of course they will.’ A patronising thing to say perhaps, but there was no other way to respond. Of course there was nothing wrong with dreaming; it was something everybody did. And if her daughter wanted to dream, where was the harm?

  PART TWO – ZINHLE

  1997–1999

  Chapter 5

  ‘YOU KNOW, YOU should concentrate on your job and forget everything else,’ Abdul said, unpacking a box of soap.

  Half-way up the ladder, Zinhle tried to turn towards him. ‘Everything else like what?’

  ‘Boys, for one thing. Stay away from them. You know they only want one thing from you.’

  Zinhle smiled at this. ‘Is that right? And what might that be?’

  ‘Actually, I’m not sure.’ He picked up a bar of soap and tossed it playfully in the air. ‘Maybe my wife knows.’

  ‘Next time I see her I’ll be sure to ask her.’

  ‘You do that,’ Abdul said. ‘Now, maybe you can bring down that box of tomatoes. And be careful – they might be heavy.’

  Reaching up Zinhle grabbed the box he wanted. It was on the heavy side, but not more than she could comfortably manage. As she grabbed it she knew he was trying to look up her skirt, or at least was feasting on her legs as more flesh came into view. She didn’t really mind; Abdul was her boss, but he was harmless. If he ever made a move on any woman, he’d have his wife Anita to answer to. A formidable presence, her plump frame would flatten him in an instant.

  Originally from Pakistan, Abdul had been in the country since he was barely in his teens, and he had adopted an accent that teetered somewhere between Afrikaans and deep Soweto jive. Although he could get a little uptight near the end of the month, when it was clear that many locals were not spending their hard-earned cash in his shop, most of the time he was a breeze to work for.

  Now that Zinhle had left school, the job gave her something to do and kept her out of trouble, at least according to her mother. This very much depended on one’s definition of trouble. An eighteen-year-old could put her mind to a whole lot of things that would give any self-respecting parent a heart attack.

  For the most part, she tried to behave, even though she’d tried smoking cigarettes (made her cough, waste of time), Mandrax (nothing special) and zol (she actually liked the way it made her feel). And she had a boyfriend, Dumi, a few years older, a smart dresser and a smooth talker who took her out in his car and treated her nice. He worked for his father’s construction company, but partying was really his primary occupation. The car was actually his father’s, which he thought she didn’t know, but it really didn’t matter, as long as he didn’t lie to her about other things. He liked being out and about, and Zinhle was fine with that as long as he was out and about with her.

  A few times they had got hot and heavy. She had kissed him with an open mouth, and he’d felt her ample breasts under her bra, playing with her nipples in a way that made her want to scream. She’d felt his throbbing penis through his trousers, and one time had pulled down his zip, delving into his boxers and feeling its thickness, massaging him to orgasm. Driven to the limits of his desire, Dumi pushed her to have sex, but the truth was she just wasn’t ready. She wasn’t even going to think about it until much later.

  When he told her that he knew a lot of girls far younger who’d been having sex for ages, she wondered how he knew them. Maybe he was sleeping with them – she was afraid to ask. And if he was, what then? She wasn’t in love with him, but liked him enough to continue seeing him. And if they ever did have sex, she’d make sure it was with a condom.

  Mabel wouldn’t want her to be close to any man, but did she really want to end up like her mother? Through all the years, she’d never known Mabel to have a relationship with a man that even came close to being intimate. As for
her father, she knew better than to ask. He was probably white, that much she could guess, but beyond that she knew nothing. And if she was honest, she didn’t really care. There were rules about blacks and whites mixing in those days, and her mother must have broken a whole lot of them. Only now with the coming of Nelson Mandela and the ANC were things changing, but her father belonged to the past, and that was OK with her.

  Some evenings, Abdul enlisted the help of his brother Murad at the shop, but a couple of nights a week Zinhle pitched in. She didn’t mind, because it meant extra money in her pocket and it got her out of the house, away from her mother, who’d always find something for Zinhle to do while she watched her soapies on television.

  She couldn’t blame Mabel for wanting to relax. She worked hard all day as a domestic worker, a different Madam to please every day of the week, travelling long distances to work. Her spaza shop had done well for a while, but as competition increased her profits decreased. With the help of good people like Abdul, who had helped her secure favourable deals from wholesalers, she’d weathered the storm for a while, but it wasn’t long before she decided to call it quits. A return to domestic work was not ideal, but it would have to do.

  It wasn’t that Zinhle didn’t like watching TV with her mother; what got to her were the comments Mabel made whenever they watched Lowland and Heritage, brand-new soapies for a brand-new nation.

  ‘Why aren’t you up there on the screen, my girl? That’s what you said you wanted. You told me you would be there, so where are you? Hah! I remember when you said that.’

  Zinhle thought she also remembered, although she couldn’t be sure it was a true memory or one she’d created for herself. But it was Mabel’s constant reminders that made her think about pursuing it for real.

  Did she really want to be an actress? She wasn’t at all sure. A model, yes, but the few times she’d gone for castings they’d told her there was no way, she was too short, her breasts too big.

  That night when she arrived at work, she could tell something was off with Abdul. He seemed unsteady on his feet, and when she got close to him there was a distinctive whiff of alcohol on his breath. And then there was the large plaster on his forehead.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Customer. Threw his car keys at me, would you believe? Called me a fucking Paki, told me to get out of his country.’ His smile was tinged with melancholy. ‘Not one of our regulars.’

  That such a thing should happen now, with the country moving forward, trying to leave the prejudices of the past behind, was really sad. But changing people’s mindsets, that would take a long time.

  In spite of his easy-going manner, Abdul was all about the business. Tonight, though, something was off. Two customers complained that he gave them the wrong change, and when Zinhle stepped in to check, it turned out they were right.

  ‘Let’s close up early,’ he said. It was nine, a good hour before they were due to close, and a fair stream of customers had ensured it wasn’t a slow night.

  ‘Are you feeling OK?’ Zinhle asked.

  ‘I’m fine. It’s just that I thought we could close early. Maybe we could talk.’

  ‘Talk? About what?’

  Only once they’d shut the doors, lowered the shutters and turned off the main lights did he begin to relax. She made them both a cup of rooibos tea and they sat on stools behind the counter.

  ‘It’s Anita,’ he told her. ‘She’s becoming so demanding. Financially. You know she’s always been one for shopping – clothes and shoes mainly – but it’s getting out of control. And I’m just a lowly shopkeeper, not some tycoon. We make a decent living, but there are limits to everything.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve been drinking?’ she asked, regretting the words as soon as they were out of her mouth.

  ‘Who said I’m –’ he started to say, but there was no point denying it. ‘I don’t know, maybe. It helps keep my mind off things.’

  ‘Have you tried talking to her?’

  ‘Anita? Yes, of course. I’ve mentioned it, but she never wants to listen. Just goes into a rage. Says shopping is the one thing she can do that she loves, and I’m trying to deny her.’

  The few times the plump and plentiful Anita had ventured into the shop, Zinhle had found her pleasant enough without really being friendly, as if she was holding something back in Zinhle’s presence.

  ‘We should be getting home,’ Zinhle said. When she worked late, Abdul always drove her, but tonight with his drinking she wasn’t sure she wanted that.

  ‘You are such a good friend,’ Abdul said, sliding down from his stool, and she knew this was the booze talking; it was not something he would ordinarily say. And then he lunged towards her, hands to both sides of her face as he tried to put his tongue down her throat.

  For a moment she could not believe it was happening, but then she pushed him away, or at least tried to, because he was strong, far stronger than her. Somehow she managed, and there he was standing in front of her like a guilty schoolboy.

  ‘What are you fucking doing?’ Another first, swearing in front of her boss. Her hand came up to her lips, trying to wipe the taste of him away, a heady mixture of spices and alcohol.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ was all he said, but then she was off her stool, around the counter and heading for the door.

  ‘Hey, I know I said I’d be working tonight, but now I’m not. If you want to see me, come by the house. I’ll be waiting.’

  She left the message on his phone. If she knew Dumi, he’d be more than eager to see her. She’d said nothing to her mother about the incident with Abdul the night before, knowing it would upset her. Maybe working there was no longer an option. Right now she needed a night off to think, take some time for herself.

  It had been a while since she’d seen Dumi, and she’d missed him. She wanted to kiss someone she wanted to kiss, obliterating the memory of Abdul and his tongue. After all these months working together, why had he done it? Had he been waiting this whole time to pounce, picking his moment to make his move?

  And there Dumi was in his father’s car, pulling up outside just after six-thirty.

  ‘I thought you were working tonight,’ Mabel said as she headed for the door.

  ‘Not tonight, Ma. I’ve got to go. See you later. Love you.’

  Mabel opened her mouth to speak, but her daughter was already gone.

  Dumi took her to Times Square on Rockey Street in Yeoville, where they had a meal and some drinks. She’d developed a liking for Long Island iced tea, and Dumi liked to indulge her. Zinhle loved the bustling energy of the place, the smells of the food coming from the kitchen assailing her nostrils before being carried off on the night air. As they left Times Square, Dumi said something about wanting to go check out Tandoor, a popular night spot further down the road, but Zinhle didn’t want to be around people. ‘Let’s just drive for a bit,’ she said, taking his hand in her own. Dumi smiled, more than willing to go along with whatever she had in mind.

  A suitably contrite Abdul awaited Zinhle’s arrival at six so he could apologise. Upsetting her had never been his intention, and he blamed the alcohol for fuelling his lust. After all, it wasn’t her fault Anita had decided to keep her mouth open in the house and her legs closed in the bedroom.

  When she hadn’t arrived by seven, he began to worry. Maybe she hadn’t made it home safely the previous night; he should have checked. He could always call her mother, but had Zinhle told her about what had happened? One thing he could do without was Mabel’s righteous wrath. They’d known each other many years, he held her in the highest regard, and now he had shown her disrespect by making moves on her daughter. What kind of a man was he?

  Abdul was locking up when he heard the man behind him: ‘Fucking Paki. Why don’t you go back home?’

  As he turned, he thought he recognised him, the man who’d thrown his car keys. Short, with a balloon of a stomach and a round face. Yes, it was him, he was sure.

  They drove around for a whi
le, Zinhle’s hand massaging Dumi’s thigh, before they found a place to park. She had no idea whether it was safe or even where they were, but she knew he’d been there before, with other girls. She would think about that later, but right now she didn’t care.

  He didn’t even see the knife that killed him, but suddenly there it was, and the man was turning, walking away almost casually. Abdul fell, grazing his face on the rough pavement. Why is this happening to me, he asked himself as he clutched his stomach, trying to stem the flow of blood; where does all the hatred come from?

  There was a lot of kissing and fondling before they moved to the back seat. She was glad that Dumi seemed to know what to do. She tried to combat her nerves as his lean muscled body moved over her. She reached down, and there was his penis wrapped in latex – she’d remembered the condoms in her bag – and she had never felt it so hard and thick. Certainly she’d never been so wet, and as it started to enter her she knew there would be pain, maybe a little blood to stain his father’s back seat, but it was alright, she was ready. As the pain hit, she gripped his shoulders, making him cry out, but then it was gone and he was moving inside her, and nothing could be nicer. She was getting close to heaven and she wanted more.

  Chapter 6

  ‘IT MUST HAVE happened when he was closing up. He was stabbed.’

  As Zinhle sat up in bed, her head spun slightly. She heard her mother’s words but did not believe them. No, she had to be dreaming. That was it, she had yet to wake up, this could not be real. Holding each other, mother and daughter let the tears flow.

  ‘It’s because of me,’ Zinhle managed to say. ‘It’s my fault Abdul is dead.’

  ‘No, my child. How can you think such a thing?’

  ‘I was supposed to work and I didn’t go.’

  ‘And if you had gone, maybe you’d be lying there dead also. You mustn’t think like that. You are alive, and he is dead. That is how it is.’