by Paige Nick
THE HIJACKERS
Thursday 11:49pm
‘So you know what to do, hey Papsak? You go up onto that dune, and watch down here. If you see cops coming, whistle, then I’ll run into those dunes. You run in the opposite direction, and I’ll see you at home,’ Thabo said.
Papsak nodded, but his eyes were wide. They hugged hard and slapped each other on the back.
‘Hamba kahle, Uncle Mlungu,’ Papsak said to the body perched on the back seat; then he turned and scampered off into the dunes.
Thabo turned as a white Merc driven by a bald mlungu pulled into the parking lot. It crunched to a halt beside him, and the man rolled down his window.
‘’Ello,’ the man said, in the funny accent Thabo recognised from their earlier phone call.
‘Do you have the money?’ he asked in his most threatening voice.
‘’ow do I know you’re not with the p’lice?’ the man said. He seemed very nervous, and he smelt like slap chips.
‘I’ve been driving around with a dead body in my car for the last two days! How do I know you’re not with the police?’ Thabo said.
‘I’m not the rozzers, I swear on my loife,’ the man said. ‘I’m goin’ to get out the car now, I’m not armed.’ He climbed slowly and wearily out of his car with both hands in the air, a Shoprite bag dangling from one thumb. Thabo noticed he was unshaven, wearing an inside-out suit jacket, a shirt and tie and a pair of pyjama bottoms. He had on only one shoe, and his sock was covered in sand. This man looked like a crazy person, not a policeman.
‘That’s ‘’im. I can’t believe it! You really got ‘’im!’ The bald man
peered into the back of the gusheshe.
‘I told you I had the body,’ Thabo said.
The man handed Thabo the shopping bag, which was packed with one-hundred-rand notes. ‘It’s all there, I promise.’
Thabo shoved the bag inside his jacket, then opened his back door. Reaching in, he clasped Uncle Mlungu around the chest and dragged his body out of the car. Uncle’s arms had thankfully dropped back down by now, and he was less stiff than he had been before, but more smelly. He was also even heavier than Thabo had expected, and he began to sweat with the effort of heaving the two-days dead body.
‘Quickly, open your back door,’ Thabo instructed the bald man, his nose wrinkled in disgust.
‘What are you doing?’ the bald man asked, his voice shocked, his accent suddenly gone.
‘I’m giving you the body you paid for. Watch out, he’s heavy.’
‘I don’t want the body!’ the bald man gasped in horror.
‘You paid for him, you must take the mlungu,’ Thabo insisted,
equally horrified at the thought of being stuck with Uncle. ‘Open your door!’
The bald man didn’t respond, so Thabo shifted the body, using his knee and shoulder to leverage the dead weight over one shoulder, and managed to open the back door of the bald man’s Merc, swearing profusely.
‘Wait, what are you doing? Don’t put that man in my car, are you crazy?’ squeaked the bald man, pushing Thabo away and slamming the door of his Merc closed.
Thabo could no longer manage the weight of Uncle Mlungu. Staggering backwards, he dropped the body onto the tarmac with a thunk. Then he watched, open-mouthed, as the bald man ran around his idling Merc, leapt in and sped out of the parking lot with a squeal of tyres.
Thabo stood gaping at Uncle lying on the ground in front of the gusheshe. Then he turned to watch Papsak sprinting down the side of the dune, taking long strides, his arms waving wildly.
‘What happened?’ panted Papsak, skidding to a halt on the sandy tarmac, bending over, hands on his thighs.
‘Crazy mlungu gave me the money, then left without Uncle. Quickly, let’s get out of here.’
The two men scrambled into the gusheshe. Thabo laid his arm along the back of the passenger seat, looked over his shoulder, then put his foot flat down on the accelerator to reverse. There was a massive thump as the car lurched forward, hitting Uncle Mlungu hard.
‘Fok!’ Thabo shouted.
‘What are you doing?’ Papsak yelled back. ‘Why are you running over Uncle Mlungu?’
‘Shit shit! I thought the gusheshe was in reverse.’ Thabo tugged at the gear stick, the cogs grinding as he forced the car into reverse, then surged backwards, clunking up onto the pavement and ramming the back of the gusheshe into a pole. Papsak flew forward, banging his head on the dashboard.
For a moment both men sat stunned as the car bounced off the pole and rolled forward, straight into Uncle Mlungu a second time, before coming to a creaking, crunching stop.
‘Someone’s coming, quick, drive, drive!’ Papsak screamed.
Thabo looked round as a shabby man and woman, both in dirty yellow parking-guard vests ran into the car park, waving their arms and yelling.
‘Drive!’ Papsak shouted again.
Thabo put the car into gear, then rammed his foot down on the accelerator. There was a double thud as both the front right and back right tyres hit Uncle Mlungu again, and then they sped out of the parking lot, skidding as they tore down the road in the direction of Khayelitsha, the car making an ominous clunking noise.
‘Are you okay?’ Papsak asked.
‘I think so,’ Thabo responded. ‘Is anyone following us?’
Papsak turned in his seat and looked out the back window. ‘No, nobody,’ he said. ‘Why did you drive over Uncle Mlungu like that?’ he asked.
‘It was a mistake. I thought the car wanted to go backwards, but it wanted to go forwards.’
Papsak sat back in his seat and pulled on his seat belt, rubbing at the egg his clash with the dashboard had left on his forehead. ‘Nentloko!’ he mumbled.
Thabo pulled the Shoprite bag out of his jacket, and handed it to Papsak, who took three different goes to count the money. ‘Fifteen thousand,’ he said eventually with glee, just as smoke started pouring out the front of the gusheshe. There was another loud clunk from the engine, and a small fire began billowing from the bonnet.
Thabo pulled over on the deserted stretch of road. The two men took their shopping bag and started the long walk back to Khayelitsha, thumbs out for a ride.
THE PARAMEDICS
Friday 2:02am
‘Don’t you think it’s funny that they call this the graveyard shift? It makes no sense if you work in a button factory or something like
that, but for us, I mean, it’s creepy, don’t you think?’ Zayne was saying
as the radio in the ambulance blurted to life through the static.
‘Come in five nine indigo, reports of a hit-and-run at Strandfontein beach in the main parking lot,’ the dispatcher’s voice came through
the radio.
‘Copy that, five nine indigo, we’re on our way,’ S’bu said into the radio. ‘Turn on the siren,’ he told Zayne.
As Zayne pulled the ambulance into the parking lot between the dunes, he spotted two informal car guards standing beside a body flat on the tarmac. While Zayne parked and cut the sirens, S’bu raced over to the body.
‘I thought you said he was still alive?’ he said to the female car guard.
‘I saw his finger move!’ she protested.
‘Hang on a minute. Hey Zayne, haven’t we seen this body somewhere before?’
Zayne dropped to his haunches next to the body, which was not in the finest condition. ‘No ways! Isn’t that the Professor Noakes guy from our hijacked ambulance? What’s he doing here?’
‘Looks a little worse for wear. What have you been up to, buddy?’ S’bu asked the dead body.
‘Hey, do you still have that cop’s card, the one from the crime scene, who grilled us after the hijack?’
‘Yeah, hang on a sec, it’s in my wallet. I’ll get it and radio the mor-
tuary.’
‘We
didn’t do nothing,’ said the male car guard. ‘He was sommer like this when we found him.’
‘Is there mos a reward?’ asked his mate.
THE WIDOW
Friday 9:32am
Maureen put her well-thumbed copy of The Real Meal Revolution on
the table in a visible spot, to help Benjamin recognise her. Then she
held the back of the spoon up to her face and checked the distorted reflection to make sure she didn’t have lipstick on her teeth. She’d just had her nails done and her hair set; she’d made her hairdresser open early for her, thrown money at the problem. It was the first time in ages that she’d had her nails done. But now that there was this money pouring in from all the Tim Noakes ENDORSED Meal Plans she
was selling, she figured she could afford to spend it however she wanted. She had earned it herself, after all.
She wasn’t sure why she wanted to look good for Benjamin, or why she had butterflies in her tummy at the prospect of meeting him.
Maybe it was because she was scared he’d see right through her, and know she was the fraudulent Lydia the second he laid eyes on her. Or perhaps it was because she was curious to see if his dark good looks online would translate into real life? She had to remind herself that
she wasn’t really Lydia (even though she sort of was); she was a sixty-year-old woman. And Benjamin would never, could never, look at
her the way he would look at Lydia.
‘Maureen?’
She looked up, startled at the sound of her own name. The man standing beside her table was in his late fifties, maybe. He was balding, with old-fashioned spectacles and a small paunch. He was neatly dressed in an expensive-looking suit, but he looked exhausted, and he hadn’t shaved. Maureen searched her mind: maybe he was an old friend of Gus’s from the office.
‘I’m Benjamin,’ said the newcomer, his face flushed with shame. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’
Maureen gaped, trying to reconcile the stocky little man standing in front of her with the Benjamin she knew online.
‘I can explain,’ he said, ‘but I completely understand if you’d rather that I just went away.’
It took Maureen a moment to find her voice. She reminded herself that he was a potential client. ‘No, please, sit, sit.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, sitting down gingerly.
‘Forgive me, I don’t know where my manners got to.’
‘Please, let me explain. . .’
‘No, really, you don’t owe me any explanations.’ Maureen stumbled over the words, trying to maintain her composure.
‘But I want to explain, you have to allow me that if nothing else,’ he said. Then the words came tumbling out of his mouth. ‘You see I work, I mean I worked for a company that manufactures carbs: breads, croissants, cakes, sugary stuff, you know, contraband products,’ he said, smiling to himself, recalling a private joke. Then cleared his throat and continued: ‘Until very recently, I was the managing director of the company. If they’d known I was Banting – and successfully at that – and if they had any inkling that I’d joined a public Banting group on Facebook, the repercussions would have been severe. They would have fired me, and might have instigated legal proceedings. That’s why I invented Benjamin. It was all so that I could join the group, and find a support system of wonderful like-minded people, like your friend
Lydia and you, of course.’
‘It’s okay, Benjamin,’ Maureen said.
‘My real name is Trevor. Benjamin was my online pseudonym,’ he said. ‘And it’s not okay. I’ve hurt people. I’ve been dishonest. I’ve done some terrible things, illegal things. . .’
Maureen looked at him closely. She could see that he was trying very hard not to cry. His bottom lip was quivering, and he couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact. The thought struck Maureen that he was very much like her. It also occurred to her that he might actually be rather handsome, if he got a shave and a few good nights’ sleep, and maybe dropped a couple of kilos.
Despite his deception, or perhaps due to her own, she felt deep empathy, as well as a desire to protect this poor broken man. She patted her hair with one hand. Then she covered his hand with her own. He looked up at her touch.
‘It’s really okay, Trevor,’ she said. ‘I think that everything is going to be okay.’
THE COP
Friday 10:15am
‘According to my autopsy, what we have here is a Caucasian male in his early to mid-sixties. Six foot three, eighty-one kilograms, mild male-pattern balding, almost all of his own teeth. Second stage of rigor was present. The body has extensive post-mortem injuries, which are consistent with an MVA,’ the pathologist said.
‘Which means what in English?’ Bennie September asked.
‘He seems to have been run over a number of times after he died.’
‘So what was the cause of death?’
‘Cause of death was asphyxia.’
‘Oh, so he was strangled?’
‘No, it was an obstruction in his trachea.’
‘Meaning?’ Bennie asked.
‘He choked,’ said the doctor. ‘On what appears to be a piece of
Ouma rusk.’
‘So it wasn’t murder?’ Bennie couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
‘Nope, by the looks of things he was eating a rusk, and he choked on it.’
‘But what about the cuts, the bruising and abrasions across his face and body?’
‘Well, when he started choking on the bit of rusk, I suspect he panicked, and threw himself over the back of a chair to try and dislodge it. That kind of behaviour is consistent with injuries of this nature. When that didn’t work, he may have bounced around the room in a panic, trying to bash the rusk out of his throat in other ways and with any household implements he could find, which would account for the broken nose, the blood, and the kinds of abrasions we see here.’
‘Wait a minute, doctor. You’re telling me that Professor Tim Noakes, the founder of the anti-carb movement, died choking on a rusk?’
Bennie asked, incredulous.
‘No, I’m not. It turns out that the deceased is not Professor Tim Noakes.’
‘What?’ Bennie said, spinning on his feet to face the doctor. ‘Wait, let me get this straight. You mean this body does not belong to Tim Noakes?’
‘They do share some physical attributes, but I can guarantee you, Detective September, the deceased is most definitely not Professor Tim Noakes.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ Bennie asked.
‘Well, for a number of reasons. The first reason I believe this body
does not belong to Professor Tim Noakes is because this man has a pacemaker. The second hint is that he has a tattoo of a very ample-bosomed woman on his left gluteus maximus. The third is that his fingerprints identify him as a fellow wanted for questioning in connect-
ion with a number of professional “hits”. But the most compelling evidence that leads me to conclude that this body does not belong to Professor Tim Noakes,’ said the doctor, taking his iPhone out his pocket, and brandishing it at the detective, ‘is the fact that they just announced on News24 that Tim Noakes is alive and well, and has been at an ashram in the Karoo with his wife for the last seventy-two hours, without any contact with the outside world.’
Bennie took the iPhone and scrolled through the news story.
‘The Prof contacted the press as soon as news of his death reached him,’ the doctor said.
‘Then where the hell did this guy come from?’ Bennie asked, pointing at the body under a sheet on the table.
‘No idea,’ said the pathologist. ‘But it appears that this time, he bit off more than he could chew.
THE CO-AUTHORS
Marco opened a restaurant called Marco’s Kitchen, where he serves fresh, homemade pasta, just like his nonna used to make, and h
er nonna before her, and her nonna before her. Professor Tim Noakes is a regular at Marco’s Kitchen, where he particularly enjoys the Zoodles (noodles made out of zucchini) from the Banting section of the menu. He and Marco are still close, but no longer work together – although Marco did go to the launch of the Prof’s new Mediterranean cookbook. He speaks to Shireen regularly, but is no longer in touch with Shaun or Xolisa.
Marco’s still not a household name, but he’s okay with that. He’s also okay with the fact that he’s ten kilos overweight. He and Chris have never been more in love, and are looking to adopt a child. MasterChef South Africa haven’t asked him to be a judge yet, but fingers crossed.
Shireen lives in Johannesburg with her husband, two children, two dogs, three cats, and a hamster. Her Banting dietician practice continues to grow, and she is hard at work on a book called The Banting Makeover: Hair and beauty tips for the LCHF lifestyle. She calls Professor Noakes every day, just to make sure that he’s okay.
After her divorce, Xolisa put on thirty-five kilos and started The South African Round and Proud Association, which urges women to love their bodies, no matter what their size. The SARPA website receives in the region of 15 000 hits per day. She is currently single, and not in contact with Prof Noakes or any of her other co-authors.
Shaun is still single and living in Cape Town. He is still a tool. He has no new books coming out.
THE WIDOW
Maureen Ewehout is now a bestselling author of romance novels. Her latest, The Shropshire Lass and the Biker: The First of the Sarah Chronicles, launches in a few weeks’ time at The Book Lounge in Cape Town. She has removed herself from the Banting for Life Facebook page and has donated every cent she earned from her ENDORSED meal plans to The Noakes Foundation. She and Trevor live together in Rondebosch, with no cats.