Soweto, Under the Apricot Tree

by Niq Mhlongo

  “So this is what you do when I’m away?” Dumi bellowed with anger. “I should have known that you’re a whore, bitch. You’re rubbish!”

  Manto squirmed in her seat and didn’t answer. Dumi was pacing back and forth between the couch and the window, in the restless way of a prisoner who wants to escape. MEC Mgobhozi could see his jaw muscles tighten. As if sensing his gaze, Dumi looked at the MEC angrily. Mr Mgobhozi reached for his pants to get dressed. Dumi stepped closer and shoved him back violently, and the MEC sprawled on the floor.

  “What are you trying to do? Sit down, you piece of shit! Who gave you permission to get dressed? I want to send you where you can sleep forever!” Dumi’s voice was full of bitterness. “You will regret sleeping with other men’s wives.”

  Dumi lit a cigarette and continued to pace up and down. The MEC swallowed his saliva with difficulty. His gulp made a start­ling sound in his own ears, like that of a person swallowing small stones into the pool of water inside his stomach. He was not used to being bullied and not being able to offer a defence. He was a politician, after all, and could usually argue and lie his way out of most situations. During party caucuses, he would argue over the silliest matters. But today his nose, mouth and throat felt dry and dusty.

  “I didn’t know she was married,” he said at last. “I thought I was her only man.”

  “What about the pictures on the wall?” Dumi asked and his eyes blazed. “You want to tell me you also didn’t see them? Did you think they were for decoration?”

  “I saw them, but she told me you guys are divorced,” the MEC’s voice pleaded. “I swear I would not have done it if I knew. I’m really sorry.”

  The MEC glanced at Manto and saw on her face the disappointment at his betrayal. Her breath was coming in gasps. Her husband’s eyes turned to her.

  “Did you say that to him?” Dumi asked her contemptuously. “So, you spread your legs for him while married to me and lie about it?”

  Manto raised her moist face and bit her lip nervously. The question coiled itself around MEC Mgobhozi and almost strangled him as he waited on Manto’s answer. Would she contradict him? Instead, she started to cry. She finally shrugged as if she didn’t know what else to say.

  “Answer me, bitch. Did you say that?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, avoiding Dumi’s eyes. “I’m very sorry.”

  “Stop saying you’re sorry, slut. You screwed this bastard here and spread your legs while you’re married. Today I’m going to teach both of you how to act your age.” Dumi banged his hand on the wall in rage. “You behave like a nineteen-year-old when you’re thirty-six!” Then he turned to the MEC. “And you, I can see from that ring that you’re married. Does your wife know that you’re busy wrecking other people’s homes?”

  “No, but she is aware that there’s a polygamous streak in every man’s heart,” he answered with a slight curtness.

  “So, your small dick directed you to my wife.”

  Dumi’s face was distorted with hate. He looked at Manto, whose elbows rested on her knees as she waited fearfully. She appeared drained of strength, and was gasping like a cow suffering from foot-and-mouth disease. Copious and crystal-clear tears cut a path down her cheeks. Dumi removed his gun from its holster. He increased the volume of the TV. It was obvious to the MEC that the man was eager to see them wince with pain.

  “Please, let’s talk man to man. I will give you the director general job,” said the MEC, leaping from the couch. “I can call the office now to make the contract available asap. You will earn millions.”

  Dumi charged at the MEC angrily and hit him hard in the face. The MEC fell back on the couch, and he felt warm blood run down his nose and from his smashed lips. Manto shuddered violently, clenching her teeth and fists. Her eyes opened and closed nervously.

  “Don’t fuck with me! Who do you think I am, some charity case? I don’t want your fucking job. You can shove it up your ass,” cursed Dumi while shaking his head profusely. His voice was high and loud. “I want to give you a lesson you will never forget.”

  “Please, don’t do it. It’s my fault!” Manto said, real panic in her voice. “His bodyguards are outside and they will shoot you.”

  “Shut up, bitch! I’m not talking to you. I will get to you.”

  The MEC’s hand was covered in blood from holding his bleeding nose, and with his tongue he could feel that his teeth had cut through his lip. Where were Mzamo and Vuyani? Had they not seen Dumi enter the house? Could it be that Mzamo had betrayed him and alerted Dumi? No, don’t let your imagination run away with you, Ndumiso Mgobhozi, he said to himself. The idiots are probably asleep in the car. So who betrayed him, then? Sis Sarah? Could she not hear the noise coming from the house? Anything was possible, including his jealous wife.

  Dumi’s eyes were glistening with anger. He stepped back and then rushed forward, stamping the tiled floor violently. Both Manto and the MEC drew back in fear.

  “She’s right. Please let’s solve this like civilised men would do,” said the MEC. “I know what I did to you was wrong and barbaric. I’m sorry. Now that I know, it will never happen again.”

  “You think I’m afraid of them?” Dumi said, with an odd, bitter laugh. The MEC wondered whether he was completely mad. “And I’m definitely sure it will never ever happen again.”

  Dumi spat on the floor in disgust. He went into the kitchen and switched on the cooker. The MEC could see the sweat beaded on Manto’s nose and under her eyes and trickling down her neck. Her hands were folded protectively in her lap. Dumi waited until the cooker was red hot and then commanded the MEC to come over.

  “Put both your hands over here or I will shoot you.”

  “Please, I beg you,” the MEC pleaded, his voice whispery. “This is too hot. I will burn. You’re making a very big mistake.”

  “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you to do as I say.”

  The MEC hesitated. He had no choice. He didn’t want to die. Bracing himself, he put his left hand on the hot burner, while staring at the gun in Dumi’s hand. Screaming, he screwed up his eyes to suppress the pain before withdrawing his hand. The pain ebbed and flowed like a tide. Rivulets of warm sweat trickled down his face. His face contorted beyond his control.

  “You’re killing me! Please!” he screamed, and saw the spittle flying from his lips. He was sure he was frothing white foam at the corners of his mouth.

  Dumi sent over a long, looping right hook, with all his weight behind it, catching the MEC on the side of his jaw with devastating impact. The shock dropped him to the floor, where he lay stunned. Feeling hollow in the stomach and weak in the limbs, the MEC tried to stand up. Dumi looked at him, sighing and frowning. He grabbed him by the scruff of his neck in a let’s-get-down-to-business manner.

  “Let’s do it once more. I’m sure this time you’ll do it right and not waste my time.”

  “Please don’t do it!” Manto tried to talk to her husband. She had stood up and was clutching her crumpled blouse in front of her.

  “I said shut up.”

  “You will kill him,” pleaded Manto, approaching the kitchen. “Please have mercy.”

  “I told you to shut up. Maybe I want to kill him. And who cares? Maybe that’s what I want.”

  “Please, don’t do it. It was my mistake and I’m ashamed of it. Please! He gave me that two million cleaning tender at work. I’m the guilty one. Rather kill me and not him.”

  This further angered Dumi as he kicked MEC Mgobhozi hard on the thigh.

  “What did you just say?” he asked angrily. “You prostituted your­self to get that fucking tender? You fucking bitch.”

  Manto backed away a bit. Perhaps she was used to this kind of anger from him? Perhaps she knew when she was pushing her husband too far? What exactly is this man capable of, the MEC wondered with horror.

  The veins in Dumi’s neck bulged from all his shouting. With one hand, he struggled to lift the badly hurt MEC. Mr Mgobhozi’s legs didn’t seem t
o have any strength left in them.

  The tender . . . What if it is that businessman Zungu who is taking revenge by sending Dumi after him and Manto? Zungu could still be angry that MEC Mgobhozi had arranged for the cleaning tender to be awarded to Manto and not to him. The MEC felt as if he could smell his own brain cells burning. No, no, what was happening to him was surely orchestrated by his opponent, Mr Selowa, who wanted to take over as the regional chairperson of the party. The thought of a political conspiracy made him shudder.

  “You’re going to sit on that stove and burn your little old ass,” Dumi growled. “But first I want you to tell me how long this has been going on behind my back?”

  The MEC’s face wrinkled with concern. He exchanged guilty and accusing glances with Manto. The back of his neck hurt from the fall, and he couldn’t straighten himself. He winced in pain, and felt sweat soaking his armpits. Manto gazed at both Dumi and the MEC. She was nervously fingering the buttons of the blouse. She looked terrified.

  “I asked you a question!” Dumi’s tongue was charged with a fresh insult. “How long have you and my wife been fucking? Answer me: four years, two years, three weeks?”

  The MEC felt waves of cold fear sweep through him. Dumi’s staring eyes intimidated him. It was like he was in a presence of a venomous snake. Dumi was looking at him like someone asking without wanting to hear the answer.

  “Only two years.”

  “So for two years you’ve been fucking my wife in the name of clambering up your greasy ladder of so-called success? You fucking politician!”

  “I’m sorry. It was a bad mistake.”

  “Damn you, it was a bad mistake,” Dumi mocked him. “You should have thought about that before you—” He spat out a long, thin jet of saliva without even finishing the sentence. It landed on the MEC’s face. Dumi then scratched his head as if wondering what to do next. He kicked the burning stove, cursing continuously.

  “I have a better idea if you don’t want to sit on the stove,” he said, and pointed his gun at the MEC. “We’re going upstairs.”

  A chill of terror gripped the MEC. He did not possess enough toughness to stand up to the ordeal of the gun and the heat. Besides, he was at the very apex of pain. Mr Mgobhozi knew that his guards would not come to rescue him as they were not aware of his situation. His cellphone was in his trousers, on silent mode. What was a vulnerable man armed only with words to do to a man armed with a gun in his own house?

  “I’ll be there when they put you under,” the MEC threatened. “My guys will be after you.”

  “No, I promise you won’t be there. You’ll be dead, and I’ll be dancing on your grave every night.” Dumi pointed at his wife and said, “You too. We are all going upstairs. You lead the way to the bedroom.”

  With the gun in his hand, he followed them. Upstairs, he motioned for them to step aside as he opened the door of the master bedroom. He switched on the lights, stood perfectly motionless and listened. Then he gestured for them to enter, before closing the door behind them with a muffled thud. Dumi paced up and down the room. He seemed hesitant about whatever he was planning. The MEC took some hope from this. Perhaps he won’t go through with whatever evil deed is brewing in his mind.

  “Sit on the bed, both of you,” Dumi finally said.

  The MEC closed his eyes and considered saying a short prayer to ask the Lord to please protect him from the vicious barbaric attack that he was anticipating. When he opened his eyes, the look Dumi gave him sent a crawling feeling up his spine and into the roots of his greying hair. After opening the door leading to the balcony, Dumi looked down at the ground far below. He came back to the bedroom and struck the MEC behind the head with the butt of his gun. Mr Mgobhozi fell on the bed and everything went black.

  Mzamo had quickly become impatient, and felt trapped inside the car, so he decided to walk down the street and back. It was deserted except for the traffic police car that had passed a while ago. Mzamo’s eyes were heavy from lack of sleep for several nights. Being denied compassionate leave because of the MEC’s philandering made him sick. The MEC could even have named the baby by SMS or WhatsApp, he thought. Why didn’t he just call his daughter and speak to her instead of making them drive all the way to Johannesburg with the blue lights on? It is all because of his selfishness. It had been nearly four and a half hours that he and Vuyani had been waiting for the MEC to return. The later it became, the more Mzamo was certain that the MEC had never really intended to visit his daughter. Manto was the real reason for the trip.

  Mzamo was smoking outside the car, lost in thought, when he heard the thud. He had been on the phone with his sister for a while, asking if everything was going well with the funeral arrangements. Before he hung up, he told her that everything would be okay. Then a dull sound from the balcony railing caught his attention. He looked at the house and saw a shadowy figure standing on the balcony. From the distance, Mzamo was not sure if it was the MEC. He bent down and stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette on the ground. He woke up Vuyani, who was fast asleep, his mouth open, in the front seat. At that moment, there was another heavy thud. The figure was throwing things from the balcony.

  “What the hell is going on up there? It seems there is a fight,” said Vuyani, who was wiping sleep from his eyes. “Did you see anyone arrive at the house?”

  Mzamo shook his head. “I think there was a traffic police car, but it drove away.” He didn’t admit that he had not bothered to watch it intently.

  With their weapons ready, Vuyani and Mzamo ran towards the house and jumped the fence. There was no car in front of the house or in the driveway. Then they saw the MEC lying face down with his left arm twisted under him. He was not moving. His right leg was twisted backward. His right arm was flung back, palm up, as if he was asking for something. Next to him, Manto’s face looked ashen, like that of a nyaope addict whose lungs have been consumed by the drug. Both victims were in their underwear. A woman was standing near the window by a glowing light, her eyes wide and one hand in front of her mouth.

  “What happened?” asked Mzamo. “Who did this?”

  When she took her hand away from her mouth he expected to see it gaping in horror, or with the lips distorted in anguish, but the corners of her mouth were only twitching slightly. For a moment, he thought she wanted to smile, but it must have been the shock.

  “I don’t know,” the woman said. “I’m Sis Sarah, her helper.” She pointed to Manto. “I was also woken up by the sound and the falling,” she said as she stretched her arms in a gesture of surprise.

  “Let me call the ambulance,” said Mzamo. “These people are badly injured.”

  Vuyani and Mzamo squatted and examined the MEC. From the smell, it was obvious that he had shit himself. He also smelt of burnt flesh. They turned him on his back. His face was swollen like a ball, and four of his teeth were missing. They were scattered on the ground around him. There was mucus in his nose.

  In his heart, Mzamo harboured spiteful words that he could not throw in the MEC’s face. To make sure that the MEC was breathing, Mzamo put his ear close to his mouth. He felt a bit of air and smelt alcohol. The MEC gave a soft grunt of pain. He raised his right hand slowly. When he opened his eyes, they were deep and red. He could not speak. A number of people had started to gather, peering through the fence. Most were domestic workers who worked and lived along the street. Others were security personnel from patrol cars. Mzamo left Vuyani with the MEC and went to examine Manto. Her eyes were closed. The nails had come off some of her fingers. Mzamo knelt down and checked her pulse. Finally, he felt a faint beat.

  “Must I call the police as well?” asked Sis Sarah.

  “No, don’t. Don’t ever mention his name to your friends, never,” warned Mzamo. “Otherwise you will die. You must give me your number and then someone will be calling you first thing in the morning. You will do as they say. Understood?”

  That was the protocol. As bodyguard and driver of politicians, they were trained to prevent hi
gh-profile people from being the subject of gossip. Their job was to keep these people looking good in the news. Both Mzamo and Vuyani knew well that allowing bystanders to recognise the MEC’s face would lead to their non-negotiable immediate dismissal.

  Mzamo looked around him and realised that gossip might already be brewing among the onlookers. “Right when you think you’re in control as a man, you’re actually lying to yourself,” a domestic worker in the growing crowd was saying. “No man can claim to be in control of his fate. All the beautiful women in this world are in control.”

  “Like they say, never go to bed with a woman whose problems are worse than yours,” said another.

  “Who’s he, by the way?”

  “Not her husband, that’s for sure.”

  The crowd parted as an ambulance skidded to a stop in front of the gate, the emergency light on the roof blipping. Sis Sarah opened the gate and the medics dashed through the throng. They pushed people out of the way as they put the two injured people on stretchers.

  A woman was busy taking a video of the two badly injured lovers with her cellphone. Further away on the lawn, one of the MEC’s expensive brown kick-and-bhoboza shoes sat as if it was ready to be worn somewhere. The woman taking a video focused on it. A thick-necked patrol guard, wrinkled like a tortoise, arrived at the scene with a lit cigarette between his lips. The woman twisted her mouth into a self-satisfied smile and continued filming.

  Vuyani stepped up. “Delete that video, please. You’re not going to embarra . . .” He let the sentence die. “Bring your phone here.”

  “But, I’m not doing anything.”

  She tried to reason with him, then to amuse him, but without effect. Vuyani’s cold, furious eyes commanded her to stay put, and she obeyed.

  “It serves them right,” another woman exclaimed indignantly, as she looked at the stretchers. “Cheaters!”

  “If he doesn’t die, I’m sure he will not be able to walk again,” another woman said. “His thing will be damaged for life.”