by Niq Mhlongo
None went into the house to find the person who could be responsible.
The following day, three newspapers reported that MEC Mgobhozi had suffered a heart attack and a fall, injuring himself badly. There was a picture of him in a wheelchair. His face was still puffed-up and bandaged. He was unrecognisable.
TURBULENCE
It’s one of those evening flights that I know is going to be unpleasant. I can sense it as I put my luggage in the overhead compartment. And it’s a long way to Glasgow via London. To top it all, having checked in a bit late for the 19:00 SAA flight from OR Tambo, I didn’t get a window seat, as I would have preferred.
The window seat is occupied by the elderly white lady who had walked down the aisle ahead of me and whose luggage I helped to stow in the overhead compartment. She was very thankful. I take my place in the middle seat. The aisle seat is occupied by a guy wearing John Lennon glasses. Let’s just call him John Lennon. His arms are embroidered with tattoos, something like an octopus, or a dinosaur. He has a pale face framed by a trim red beard.
Ten minutes into the flight, John Lennon puts his earphones on and starts pressing on his TV monitor. It looks like he is searching for a suitable movie. When he finds one, he plays it immediately. The woman in the window seat introduces herself as Elsabe Nel, but says I can just call her Elsabe. I guess she is in her sixties. Whatever her age, her teeth are in excellent condition. They protrude only slightly from her upper jaw. Her forehead is a little wrinkled, and bears the stamp of years of experience. She says she is from Boksburg, east of Johannesburg. She sits back, but cannot find a more relaxing and comfortable position in the straight-backed seat. As the plane takes off, she looks at me and offers me a stick of gum.
“Take one of these. I always keep them for flying,” she says. “It’s good for your ears while the plane is moving, believe me.”
“Thank you. I’m Tokollo, by the way.”
I have flown many times, and the gum story is not new to me. I have been using the gum trick for a few years now, because I always become dizzy during take-off and landing. With Elsabe, I have to pretend it is the first time I hear about the trick. Mind you, I have two packs of Stimorol peppermint sugar-free gum in my jeans pocket. But I give Elsabe that rehearsed, half-hypnotised listening look. She is unable to suppress her generous smile. She removes her glasses and looks through them. She blows off a speck of something and then wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.
The plane has reached altitude and is now levelling out. Elsabe looks clear-eyed. She puts her glasses back on.
“Nice to meet you, Tokollo.”
Her hair is parted in the exact centre of the head and frames her face, reaching almost to her shoulders. There is silence between us for a while. The air hostess has just stopped next to our row with the drinks trolley. The John Lennon guy removes his earphones and orders Black Label whisky and soda. Once the air hostess has served him, he immediately puts his earphones on to continue watching his film.
“And what are you having, sir?” she asks me.
Her lips curl beautifully and shape every syllable. I order a gin and tonic, and Elsabe gets a small bottle of red wine. The air hostess passes our drinks over. Her delicate, pleasing fragrance lingers in the air. I sip my gin and tonic. I look at John Lennon for a second as he pours the whisky into the plastic cup. From the way he handles his cup, I can tell he is the type who prefers to drink in a civilised way, at a civilised pace, while nursing a civilised economics discourse.
“So, what are you doing in London?” It’s Elsabe.
Aargh, I actually wish she could just leave me alone. I am trying to select some music to play, and my earphones are already out of the plastic wrapper. Wow, there’s a great selection to choose from here: Fatoumata Diawara, Seun Kuti, Gloria Bosman, Angélique Kidjo, Khadja Nin, Asa, Richard Bona, Oumou Sangaré, Aïcha Koné, Sally Nyolo, Oliver N’Goma and Kassav’. But what can you do when Elsabe’s blue eyes, behind those thick lenses, are staring at you?
“I’m actually going to Scotland. I study at the Glasgow Caledonian University.”
“Oh good. I love Scotland. Your parents must be so proud of you. What are you studying?”
I don’t want to tell her that my parents both died in a car accident when I was twelve. If I tell her that my sister, Dipuo, who is a nurse in Glasgow, has supported me since my parents died and that I’m staying with her and her husband while I study at the university, it will only make her ask more questions. I don’t want to have a long discussion. All I want on this ten-hour flight is to relax, drink alcohol, listen to some great music and watch a few movies.
I keep stealing glances at John Lennon. He seems to be enjoying himself. Every time there is violence or a sex scene in the film he is watching, he narrows his little eyes behind his glasses and takes a sip of his whisky. I wish I could swap seats with him, but, gosh, Elsabe’s blue eyes are waiting for an answer.
“Well, I’m doing my undergrad studies, majoring in economics. I’ve been living in Glasgow for the past four years.”
“I’m glad to see young black people like you studying. You know, South Africa is going to the dogs because we’re led by uneducated people. That’s why I’m leaving.” She shakes her head. “And I’m not coming back.”
“What do you mean? Are you only thinking of going into exile now while others are returning?”
“Well, I’m going to join my son Dirk in Australia. He is in Perth and an electrician there. He used to work for Eskom before he was retrenched during affirmative action. There are no jobs in South Africa and there are a lot of uncertainties. That stupid man Zuma and his ANC have wasted our beautiful country. He is corrupt to the core and a thief. That’s why there’s political and economic turbulence in our country.”
The air hostess comes carrying a tray for the guy behind us. Vegetarians are lucky; they always eat first on the plane. It’s the same one we ordered the drinks from. She is young and beautiful, with traces of purplish make-up on the lids above her big eyes. There isn’t a blemish on her face. She is too light in complexion, though. I would have easily mistaken her for a white person if I was not looking at her up close. The man sitting on the other side of the aisle in the middle seat is watching her lustfully. Look at him – the bastard’s mouth is open as if he’s trying to remove her bra and panties with his teeth. What does he know about beautiful air hostesses anyway? If he asks me, I will suggest he travels on RwandAir and Ethiopian Airlines one day. Then he will know what I’m talking about.
While opening his tray to put the food down, the vegetarian guy behind me keeps bumping my seat with his knees. It is very irritating, but I keep quiet. He prods my back with his hand.
“Excuse me,” he says when I turn my head and look back, “can you adjust your seatback a bit more so that I can have enough space to open my tray and eat?”
Bastard, I say to myself. He has a small thin nose, curved like a bird’s beak. The small moustache on his upper lip makes him a perfect grandson of Adolf Hitler. Before I can answer him, Elsabe is teaching him a lesson for me.
“No. How do you want him to sit?” She shakes her head on my behalf. “All the seats are like this. Just look around! You have to try to eat like that and leave this boy alone.”
“I was not talking to you,” says Hitler’s grandson.
“I know, but what you’re asking for is impossible.” Elsabe’s eyes light up with determination. “You should have paid for business class if you wanted more room.”
Tokollo, I say to myself, you see how it helps when you assist elderly women to put their luggage in the overhead compartment? They protect you against bullies like Hitler’s grandson and offer you gum for turbulence. The poor guy is pissed off. All he can do is click his tongue. He keeps quiet and eats his freaking vegetables in an uncomfortable seat. The man sitting next to him is so fat that when he laughs at a movie scene his eyes disappear from his balloon face.
“People on the plane are bullies. Don
’t allow them.”
I nod, curling my lips in just the faintest suggestion of a smile. In front of Elsabe, the travel map says we are travelling at seven hundred and ten kilometres per hour and have just passed Botswana. As Elsabe sips her wine, I take a moment to check the movie package. Most of my favourite South African movies are here: Tell Me Sweet Something, Tsotsi, Four Corners, Happiness Is a Four-Letter Word and Vaya. I cannot play any because Elsabe’s blue eyes are staring at me.
“Some white people are racist, you know, but not all of us. I had my domestic worker, Doris, from before Dirk was born. Dirk is the one now in Perth, and I’m joining him there. Yes, Doris looked after Dirk from birth. She’s from Wadeville in Germiston. Oh, what a sweetie-pie! I gave her our house in Boksburg. Yes, it’s for her. Just to say thank you for looking after Dirk and Tanya and Darren. But I can’t deal with this country any more. I’ve had enough of the ANC. And it seems like that rude Malema boy is getting more popular every day.” She places her hand on her chest. “He will kill all whites if he wins. I saw him filling the stadiums and singing, ‘Kill the farmer, kill the boer’. He says he will kill us all and he will take all our land and houses.”
She speaks without pausing for breath, like it is a speech she has made a hundred times before. Her eyes blink all the time. She never looks at me during the speech.
Beside me, John Lennon is scratching his forehead after the movie has ended, and he rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. He presses the TV monitor searching for more movies. With the index finger of his other hand he is busy cleaning his hairy nose. He sips at the whisky as if it’s the first one he has ever tasted.
“Do you believe what politicians say?” I ask Elsabe without meaning it. “Do you really believe Malema will kill all the white people? I think it’s just a harmless revolutionary song that must be contextualised. Maybe white people are just exaggerating their fear.”
She gives me a locked-jaw smile. Her teeth are not quite white, although they are the most beautiful set of teeth for an elderly person. Well, I say what I say to her because I think it will be rude if I ignore her. In my Sepedi culture, it is bad manners to interrupt an elderly person while they are talking. It is a sign of disrespect that will lead to bad luck in the future.
Somewhere at the back of the cabin a stranger is coughing violently. I turn to look, but cannot see who it is. As I turn back, Elsabe’s blue eyes are on me.
“Anything is possible. I think the last spark of humanity that still remained in the ANC was utterly and finally extinguished in the terrible darkness of that man’s heart – Zuma. Look at this SAA; it is now going bankrupt because of the ANC. Politicians embezzling money and not thinking about the people. They appoint their friends and relatives in this affirmative action nonsense. People who are highly skilled are overlooked. That’s why many white people are leaving this country. Skilled people are leaving. It won’t be long before South Africa will be drained like Zimbabwe, while Zuma lives like a king in Nkandla. That man must go and die in jail.”
“It’s true. The political system in South Africa favours the powerful and rich over the defenceless people. The majority of white people are still living in comfort zones.”
She shoots me an accusing look. She draws away and forces herself to look at me for a long while. I hear the melting ice cubes falling back against the bottom of my plastic cup when I lower my arm to pick it up. As I raise my gin and tonic, I’m unable to steady my cup because the flight has become a bit bumpy. I spill the contents twice as I try to take a sip. While I wipe my mouth, the air hostess comes with the trolley of food.
“Chicken or beef, sir?” she asks, smiling.
“Beef.”
“Chicken for me, please,” Elsabe says before the air hostess asks her.
I ask the air hostess for another gin and tonic. Elsabe asks for more wine. She smiles and promises to bring our drinks after she has served the food. I just want something strong to help me cope with Elsabe. I realise she is one of those people who never shuts up. I begin to eat my beef stew.
“Like I was saying, there’s no future in South Africa any more. The future has gone with that honest man of God, Mandela.” She pauses, and I watch as she twists her mouth while chewing a piece of chicken, barely touching the rice. “Now, that boy Malema is agitating people to say that Mandela sold out the country and gave white people the largest stake. I worked hard for what I have. I bought my house when Mandela was still in jail, in 1966. How could he have given me what was already mine and I had worked hard for?”
I listen with an agreeable smile, but I’m not pleased she is still talking. I break off a piece of my bread roll and chew it slowly. John Lennon eats and drinks quickly and then exhales noisily. As Elsabe speaks, food particles fly from her mouth and land on my arm. I suppress the urge to wipe them off.
“Mandela’s great legacy of reconciliation is being tarnished by that stupid Zuma because of his corruption and that Malema boy who doesn’t think when he talks.” She is talking as if she is thinking aloud. “That’s why I’m leaving that once-beautiful country, which I love so much, for good. I just want to die somewhere peacefully. My other son, Darren, refused to come with me to Australia to join his brother, Dirk. He lives in Bloemfontein now, and he is a lawyer. He believes the DA will turn things around, but I think he’s dreaming. This country is going to the dogs.”
The lady in front of us seems to have caught fragments of our conversation. I see her looking back and trying hard not to laugh. She has a low forehead and a face of freckles. Elsabe stretches her legs and sighs heavily as she moves her unfinished food to the side of the tray. The time is ten-fifteen. Elsabe opens the window blind, looks outside, and then closes it again. I catch a glimpse of the dark night and some hint of rain, then a flash of lightning somewhere in the distance. The air hostess comes to collect the trays and the rubbish. She has not forgotten my gin and tonic and Elsabe’s wine. But Elsabe has to go to the toilet first, and I feel relieved.
“May I ask you a favour when I come back, please?” she says to me.
“Sure you can.”
“I want us to exchange seats. I get nervous sitting next to the window when it looks like we’re heading into bad weather.”
“Oh, yes.”
I watch Elsabe as she walks towards the toilet in front of us. There are two people in the queue. I can see her gesturing with her hands to the female passenger standing in front of her. I take a sip of my gin. Its bittersweet tang fits my mood. I open the window blind slightly and look at the blackness of the night. It’s just dark empty space outside.
In ten minutes Elsabe returns and sits in the middle seat. She pops gum into her mouth and begins to chew it slowly before offering me some. She begins the next instalment of her political education.
“I feel pity for all those who have worked hard and continue to work hard for this country, only for Zuma and the Guptas to launder people’s hard-earned money, you know.” She says the words as if she is repeating something she just heard from the woman by the toilet door. “Money laundering is killing our country.”
“At least you have a choice to not return to those corrupt and untrustworthy politicians,” I say. “You’re going to a new home. To most poor black people, who can’t afford to choose, Australia can only come into their dreams and feed their ambition. But it’s an ambition they will never realise. Which means the darkness that has befallen South Africa is all around them, and also inside them. The question is, who has the courage necessary to tackle it?”
She sips her wine and eyes me over the rim of her plastic cup. Suddenly thunder crashes outside. The seatbelt sign starts to flash. Somewhere a baby cries in long, jerking cackles. I open the window blind a little bit just to have a look. Dazzling flashes of lightning split the black night.
“Are you EFF or ANC?” she asks doubtfully, as if afraid to overstep the bounds of our friendship.
“Neither really, but I support most of what the EFF says about sh
aring our beautiful land. I also support most of what the ANC has done to this country. I’m in between, if you like.”
Her face breaks into a forced smile. Our overhead lights are off, and I can only see the whites of her eyes. She bends over and looks like she is gasping for breath. She clears her throat with a few drops of water from her plastic bottle.
“That’s why I’m going to Perth. First, I will stop at my daughter Tanya’s place in Abergavenny, in Wales. She is married there to a nice Welshman. Maybe one can find happiness in those distant places of Wales and Australia, away from what I used to call home. Since this ANC took over, the white people in South Africa have no other refuge, but they are a target of some blacks. There are a lot of good black people. But there is no protection from the ruling party for white people. Look at the farmers that are being killed every day.”
“You think so. But all this is a legacy of apartheid. It was a system of violent oppression and dispossession. At least you have a place to run to, and you’re welcome in Europe because you’re white. I can’t go to Zimbabwe or Mozambique, unfortunately, because they are worse than South Africa. Unlike you, Europe cannot accept me. I’m stuck with Zuma and Malema.”
“The problem is that this ANC government is rewarding their cronies with tenders. This has become a shortcut to power and money. There are no opportunities for capable and qualified people. The government has made hardworking black people lazy and over-reliant on social grants. It is bad. It’s just like the land issue. Everyone wants land in the urban areas. But there is so much land in the rural areas. Land is land. People must understand that the only open land that is left in South Africa exists in rural areas, but no one wants that. That is the nature of our stupidity and incompetence. And it is perpetrated by the stupid ANC government.”
I let her speak without interrupting while I fortify myself with my gin and tonic. She smiles such a kindly smile, as if she thinks she is an old friend of mine. I nod sleepily. The time is ten past eleven. The person in front of me is snoring loudly. The turbulence worsens. Outside, it is thundering so hard that everyone stops talking. The overhead lights go on and off a few times and the monitor screens flicker. The smell from the toilet perfume thickens and blocks my nose.