Soweto, Under the Apricot Tree

by Niq Mhlongo

  Elsabe blows her nose several times. We have to hold on to our drinks so that they don’t fall off the tray tables. We are silent as though by prearrangement. The turbulence stops after some twenty minutes, and Elsabe starts talking again.

  “But liberation movements are dying out,” she says. “Look at what happened to Kaunda’s party in Zambia.”

  “Not necessarily. What about Frelimo in Mozambique, MPLA in Angola and Zanu in Zimbabwe?” I ask with an ingenuous smile. “They’re still there.”

  “Well, I guess some are still there,” she says reluctantly. “But I think they are running dictatorship regimes.”

  “But South Africa is a democratic country under the ANC,” I say, taking a sip. “Anyway, I hope you enjoy your new home in Perth.”

  “I don’t know. But I’ve heard there is tranquillity and limitless peace there. I hope it’s not a lie.”

  She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. It’s two in the morning and the darkness looks impenetrable outside the window as I open the blind a little to check. The universe seems a very dark place out there. Next to Elsabe, John Lennon dozes off, wakes up, and dozes off again. At one point, he wakes up dizzily for few minutes and raises his nose as if he is smelling coffee. He shakes his head and closes his eyes again. His shoulders droop and his arms flop loosely at his side. A string of thick ropy saliva runs from the corner of his mouth. He runs his tongue over his mouth and teeth and almost spits. Apparently, he realises just in time that he is still on the plane and not in the comfort of his own home.

  “This Black Economic Empowerment thing has given black people false desires and greed.”

  “We’re all corrupt, after all,” I say, feeling really tired. “Maybe the only difference is that white corruption was done moderately and hidden with great tact.”

  “South Africa has become one big corruption-and-crime movie,” she shrugs. “Our country is moving down the path of destruction just because of the ANC. Just look at our junk status credit rating. Most youths are forced to become career criminals in the townships and cities because of the huge unemployment rate, all caused by the ANC.”

  “The main thing is not to lose our bearings.”

  “They are so corrupt. And because of the lack of employment and poverty, youths are schooled more in crime than anything else. They are illiterate, so they have to work their way from swindle to swindle to make ends meet.”

  Another bout of heavy turbulence starts. My toes curl in my shoes and I grip the headrest of the seat in front. I close my eyes and silently prepare myself for the death that I think nothing will defer beyond an hour if the turbulence continues. On my head, I can feel the tuft of my Afro shivering and shaking. The skin beneath it feels warm. At times I can’t feel my legs. Elsabe holds on to the armrest between our two chairs. John Lennon is fast asleep, but small beads of sweat cover his beard like dew.

  The turbulence lasts for about twenty-five minutes this time. Then the seatbelt sign ahead turns green and the plane moves smoothly again. Without a word, Elsabe opens the small handbag that she put in the seat pocket in front of her. Her lungs seem to be working with increasing difficulty. She takes a small bottle of pills and a water bottle to the toilet. To pass, she has to wake John Lennon, who gets up grudgingly. Elsabe winces, as if she has knocked her foot against something. She walks slowly to the toilet, as if her legs have become heavier.

  Most people are asleep, but there are a few TV monitors still playing movies. Some people have blankets wrapped around them. As John Lennon sits down again, I decide I will fake being asleep when Elsabe comes back. I drink up my gin and tonic and close my eyes. But I realise that I have been looking forward to a movie all night and I won’t be able to sleep without watching at least a little bit. I search through the list, and settle on Tell Me Sweet Something. Not long into the movie my eyes keep closing on their own. I’m drifting in and out of sleep, missing scenes here and there.

  I wake up at about three-thirty, realising that sleep has finally won without my finishing the movie. Elsabe is still not back. She has left her small handbag half open under the seat. I peer inside and see a few pounds and many Australian dollars – rolls of fifties and hundreds. It is just lying there, open for the taking. Would she even miss some of it? I could take a roll of notes, I debate with myself. Payment for having had to listen to her the whole flight. Of course I’m going back to Glasgow broke. But what if it is a trap? What if there are cameras inside the plane? What if the John Lennon guy is not asleep at all, and is just waiting for me to do it? What if the money is marked somehow? And where is Elsabe? Had she returned and gone to the toilet again while I was asleep? Surely I would have woken up if that were the case. Anyway, she could return at any moment.

  I open the window blind a bit and stare at the darkness outside. All I can see is the flickering red light on the tip of the wing. The silence in the plane is like that of the dead. Many people are still claimed by the world of sleep.

  A wave of sleep tries to woo me too, and it lifts me to the edge of unconsciousness. I can feel it as it drops me slowly back and lifts me again. I finally fall asleep. I have a strange dream of Elsabe as a homeless person along Empire Road in Johannesburg. It is during the time of the local elections, and as I’m passing by in a taxi I see her carrying a placard with the words Give me R100 or I will vote for the ANC and Zuma to rule over us again.

  At about four in the morning I’m woken up by the air hostess moving the trolley up the aisle. Another one stops at our seat row and removes Elsabe’s belongings from the overhead compartment. I’m confused. I look quickly from the one hostess to the other as they stand next to John Lennon. I can see his eyes blinking rapidly to shake off the sleep.

  “Have you upgraded her to first class?” I ask accusingly.

  The air hostess bares her bright white teeth in a smile. Maybe she is misunderstanding me. What I want to say to her is that I have never been in first class before. I’m hoping that she will upgrade me also, just like she did with Elsabe. But she dismisses me politely.

  “Sort of. She is old, and the turbulence was too much for her,” she says, smiling sourly at me. “We have decided to let her have an empty seat.”

  “You should have upgraded me also,” I accuse her. I hand her the handbag with the money. “You know I have never been to first class.”

  “Next time you must ask on time,” she says, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. I suspect resentfully that she has seen more of my puerile thoughts than I had intended to show. I don’t even bother to close Elsabe’s handbag because John Lennon is impatient to go back to his sleep that was cut short. The air hostess verifies Elsabe’s bag against the ticket she is holding. She leaves before I can ask for more gin and tonic. Anyway, it’s almost time for breakfast. Another air hostess is giving passengers warm towels to wipe their sleepy faces and hands before we eat. But why did Elsabe not even tell me she found a nice place in first class?

  “Coffee, tea?” asks the air hostess.

  “Coffee,” I answer.

  At the same time, there is an announcement that the plane will start descending in about thirty minutes. The time is three-fifty in the morning. Already there is a queue for the toilets. Elsabe has not yet come to say, “It was nice talking to you, I have to be in the first class.” At least she could have the courtesy to say, “Sorry for robbing you of your sleep and watching the movies because of my talkativeness.” Maybe I should go to first class and look for her, but I know how airlines perpetuate the class division. That curtain in the aisle that separates first from second might just as well be a brick wall. They will not allow the poor class like me to infringe on the rights of the rich class on the other side of that curtain.

  John Lennon is the last in the queue to the toilet. I’m also pressed to go to the toilet, but I decide to wait a bit for the queue to decrease. I watch John Lennon for about five minutes as he scratches his armpits, his thighs, his head, his buttocks, his back and his arm. He yawns as
if chasing out the sleep through his mouth and nostrils.

  After breakfast is served, there is another important announcement. The pilot apologises to those with connecting flights. He says that, once we land, no one may leave the aircraft until certain papers are filled out. We listen with surprise as he tells us that “Unfortunately someone has passed away on board”. For the first time, John Lennon and I look at each other. A heavy silence falls between us. Why haven’t we heard from Elsabe? Maybe she is the person the captain is referring to.

  Two air hostesses begin spraying something like perfume in the air as they walk down the aisle. We all remain seated. When the pretty one reaches our seat, she confirms our suspicions as she makes sure all the seats are in the upright position before landing.

  “I didn’t want you to panic earlier on. The passenger who died is the same person who was booked to that seat.”

  “You mean Elsabe, Mrs Nel? What happened?”

  “We’re not sure, but it seems that she forgot her heart medication in her checked luggage and her condition deteriorated with the stress of the turbulence during the journey. At seventy-two, I think, her heart failed to cope.”

  “She was seventy-two?” I say, surprised.

  Briefly I conjure up Elsabe in my mind. To look at her, one would never have guessed that she was in her seventies nor that she had a heart condition. I thought she was at least ten years younger, and recalled her small, wrinkled but quite beautiful face and lovely blue eyes.

  John Lennon vigorously rubs eyes still heavy with sleep. For a moment, my mind races around itself, remembering fragments of my dream and the conversations Elsabe and I had before she disappeared.

  “That’s shocking,” says John Lennon, his hand shielding his mouth, probably because he has not brushed his teeth.

  The air hostess nods her head and leans towards us with a sympathetic look on her face. Her cleavage is directly at my eye level now, and suddenly all I can think of is seeing her naked. I try to keep my face composed in the sad look of someone who has just lost a new friend. But it is difficult. She has the kind of body that every man on the plane turns to look at involuntarily.

  She talks in a hushed tone, leaning in even further towards our seats. “The crew was unable to resuscitate her even when we had found a first-class seat for her to lie comfortably on—” She stops mid-sentence and then resumes. “That’s after she was found collapsed by the toilet door. We ended up putting her in a body bag and placing her in a . . . private place.”

  I have heard about so-called corpse cupboards on board planes before. It gives me chills. The plane descends towards the airport. I let my eyes roam freely through the window, lingering on the colourful London scene below and taking it all in. Clouds have gathered, overshadowing the early morning light. It looks like it’s a chilly morning, and as we descend I see a light grey mist covering the ground. It makes me slightly melancholy.

  We disembark after a good thirty-minute delay. I follow the exit signs mechanically. All the details of what Elsabe looked like are fading fast from my memory. As I walk along the corridor, I hold down the panic that comes and goes in sudden surges when I think of Elsabe’s pounds and Australian dollars inside my pocket. Why did I steal a dead woman’s money? God will definitely punish me. But who cares? This world is rotting with sinners like me and it’s ready to collapse. I can feel nausea mounting. Every movement of the police ahead of me in the corridor makes me panic.

  WHISTLE-BLOWERS AND VUVUZELAS

  He was known by many names in the township. His family and close relatives called him Andrew. Those of us who grew up with him in Chi Town called him Druza. Those who only knew him between 1998 and 2005 call him “the walking catalogue” because of the beautiful expensive clothes he used to wear back then. But ever since he was dismissed from his work in 2005, everyone called him Sbotho because he drank too much.

  I last saw Druza in June 2014, during the Fifa World Cup. We met at a local shebeen called Hell’s Angels, in Chi Town. That’s where most of us watched the World Cup games. That Saturday evening, 14 June, England were playing Italy, and later on Ivory Coast were playing Japan. Since South Africa hadn’t qualified for the tournament, most people in the shebeen were waiting eagerly for the Ivory Coast game. The place was crowded and cramped. Clouds of smoke curled beneath the white ceiling. There were smells of cigarette smoke, alcohol, sweat, over-perfumed bodies, farts and dirty socks.

  The first game was an hour away when Druza came into the shebeen. The brim of his old red sporty hat was pulled down over his eyes. The noise of the shebeen swirled around us. Bottles of beer glittered on the tables, while empty ones rattled as people walked between the tables and patrons to find empty chairs.

  As soon as he entered, Druza took off his hat and sat next to me. He looked tipsy, and smelt of home-brewed umqombothi beer. The song “Khona” by Mafikizolo was blaring from the huge speakers above us. The sound demanded action, the kind I alone in the shebeen was incapable of. Almost everyone stood up to dance. It was as if they wanted to see who could gesticulate the most, shout the loudest along with the song, and collapse the soonest with feigned or real drunkenness. Whenever this jam played and patrons had enough beer in their system, everyone felt like a dancer. Even the drunkard feels the rhythm of this house song in his stagger.

  Two ladies were dancing obscenely on the middle table. The crowd roared with approval. A man standing next to them thought he was dancing too, but he was only staggering. His head and legs seemed heavy because of his drunkenness. Another man, sitting by the door, caught me watching closely the up and down of the dancing ladies’ buttocks. Beside him was a sign that read: Our beer is colder than your ex’s heart.

  “Heita, grootman Popo,” Druza greeted me politely. He sounded drunk and spoke as though he were incapable of intelligent thought. “I’m glad you are here. Please buy me a beer, grootman. You know I have been unemployed. Please buy me a beer,” he repeated. “I also want you to get me a job. I have been unemployed for long. Things are not fine.”

  Without asking for my permission, he took my Windhoek quart and drank from it. Before he could finish it, I took the bottle from him. Out of politeness, I did not wipe the neck of the bottle with my hand before I drank. That would have been a sign of snobbishness in this shebeen. Someone sitting in front of us gave Druza the remainder of his lit Courtleigh cigarette when Druza asked for it. He dragged smoke from the cigarette. With calloused thumb and forefinger, he flicked the ash from the glowing end into the ashtray, which was almost full of cigarette butts.

  “Please get me a job from your workplace, grootman. Things are not going right, my friend.”

  Druza and I were not friends. I used to date his sister, Mokgadi. When I was still with her, he used to walk around with the air of being a handsome man, which he was not. At that time, he worked as a security guard for a company somewhere in City Deep, east of Johannesburg city centre, which sold old cars and car parts. Druza would steal parts and sell them at Midway scrapyards. I once bought a piston for my old selesele Mazda 323 from him. That’s when I met Mokgadi. Things changed when one day Druza was dismissed from his job for stealing. For the past seven years he has been unemployed. He survives by washing dustbins along our street after the weekly rubbish collections. People pay him forty rand per dustbin per month and there are twenty bins on the street. In his heyday, his face was unusually smooth for a man. Now he was a well-known sorghum beer drinker.

  “But you already have a job,” I told him.

  “Don’t laugh at me, grootman. You call washing rubbish bins a job?” he said, and when he clapped his hands cigarette ash fell on the table, his jeans and the floor. “That’s not a job. Even if you can get me a security job I will appreciate it. I have a security certificate, grade from E to A. I have done training on handgun, shotgun and rifle. I’ve also done cash-in-transit and armed reaction. Now I need a job. I just want to be able to look after myself and my two newborn babies. By the way, I have six
kids now.”

  The fact that there were still some people who called Druza a “walking catalogue” was a misnomer. His hair was short and brown with filth, and his clothes were shabby. Two of his front teeth were missing, probably knocked out during a fight. His eyes bulged slightly and the whites were dirty, as if he had been standing too long in the smoke. The sleeves of his jacket were too long for him. He was twenty-nine, but his face looked older because of a decade of hunger, recklessness and poverty.

  “If I hear of something at my workplace, I will let you know. You know I’m just an ordinary salesperson at Edgars, and nothing more.”

  The Mafikizolo song ended. The dancers stood still, panting with fatigue. Some sat down, fanning themselves with their hands. A slow house jam by Black Coffee started to play. I went to the counter to buy my Windhoek Lager and Druza’s Hansa Pilsner quart. When I looked behind me, a woman’s hand waved. It was a lady called Ona who was sitting with her friend Obakeng. They were gesturing for me to buy them drinks too. I knew the two as experienced drinkers in the township. Rumour was that they didn’t mind going to bed with any man as long as he bought them beer. I didn’t like them. Ona in particular had a big scar on her throat, as if she had recently survived a suicide attempt. Anyway, all the women in this shebeen were part of a group that made no effort to look attractive. Obakeng had once been beautiful. Her face was disfigured by many blotches and pimples. Her teeth were slightly too long where the gums were receding. She was not presentable, and was an incurable drunkard. She drank as if her throat needed to swallow something bittersweet all the time.