Soweto, Under the Apricot Tree

by Niq Mhlongo

“Two Hunter’s for us please, Popo darling,” she called.

  “Not today, I’m broke,” I said as politely as possible.

  I came back and placed the two bottles on the table, sat down and leaned back in my chair. For a moment Druza seemed to be gazing into space, thinking and concentrating. Next to him, two women laughed and then slapped their thighs noisily. As soon as one of the two women stood up and went towards the counter, people followed her with their gaze. She had a huge behind, and was wearing long black leather boots. Deliberately, I withdrew my eyes from the sensuous bounce of her buttocks. I could hear peals of derisive laughter from Obakeng and Ona. I watched them as they pointed and made rude gestures at the lady while she stood by the counter.

  The game between England and Italy started. The music was switched off so that we could hear the commentary. A few people favoured England and knew many of the players on the field. This is because a lot of the English Premier League is shown on DStv. Those who wanted England to lose the game cited the political reason of decolonisation. One of the men sitting at the corner said he only hated England because it colonised Mzansi and drained its mineral resources.

  Druza had already finished his cigarette and beer and he was about to lift my Windhoek when I stopped him and gave him fifteen rand to buy his own and a single Yes cigarette. He stood up and walked towards the counter. Near the speaker he missed a step and nearly fell. Upon regaining his balance, he collided with someone who seemed to swear under his breath. They exchanged glances before Druza reached the counter. Minutes later, he was back with the cigarette already burning between his lips.

  “You know, grootman, Mokgadi asked me about you yesterday,” he said, and took a long drag at his cigarette. He blew smoke at the ceiling.

  “Is that so? Say hello to her too,” I said without interest, concentrating on the soccer.

  “I’m serious, grootman.” He tapped the ash from his cigarette and showered me with spittle as he tried to talk. “I just sent her a WhatsApp message to say I’m sitting here with you. I know she will come.”

  “What?” I asked, as I watched him drink his beer in long greedy swallows. “I didn’t ask you to call her. Please don’t invite your sister thinking I will buy you two beers.”

  “No, I mean she drinks here too,” he said, smiling and showing the gap in his teeth.

  Everyone in the township knew that Mokgadi had turned their four-roomed house into a female-only casino. It was still an apartheid-era house, without any renovations. The steel door still made a noise when you opened or closed it. The yard was no longer well kept, as it had been before her parents died. Women paid twenty rand per night to come and gamble with cards. Mokgadi now had four kids from different fathers. The last born, who was about three, was fathered by the Pakistani businessman who owns a spaza shop around the corner. The gambling happened 24/7. Young ladies and older women, married and unmarried, came to her house to gamble their pension and social grant money away overnight, including Ona and Obakeng. Some would be dropped off there by their husbands, some used the taxis, and some came by train. They would come to try their luck at cards. They came from different townships: Sebokeng, Orange Farm, Tembisa and Kagiso, Alexandra, Vosloorus or Katlehong. Most often they would lose money. But sometimes they would win.

  Recently, there had been an armed robbery at the house. People thought that Druza had orchestrated it because he was a nyaope addict. The robbers took the patrons’ cellphones and money. They even took their clothes. Undeterred, people returned to gamble the following day. Some angry husbands came and beat their wives for not having come home. Some promptly divorced them after discovering that their wives had gambled away all the money meant for their children’s transport and food. But still the women came, in huge numbers, to do more gambling. It didn’t matter whether it was raining, cold or hot.

  “You don’t like her because of the four kids?” said Druza, sounding disappointed. “She’s a very nice lady. Let me tell you, grootman, you will not get a woman without kids in the township nowadays. If you do, believe me, it means she cannot give birth.”

  “No, it’s not like that at all. I like your sister as a friend, but I have a girlfriend now.”

  When Italy scored in the thirty-fifth minute, those who wanted England to lose blew their whistles and vuvuzelas in delight. England equalised two minutes later and the whole shebeen imitated the atmosphere of watching soccer at the stadium. Vuvuzelas and whistles were blown louder, hands were waved and clapped, and fists were raised. Some people were wearing the jerseys of their favourite local teams, like Kaizer Chiefs, Mamelodi Sundowns, SuperSport United and Orlando Pirates. Some were wearing those of national soccer teams like Bafana Bafana, England, Brazil, Spain or Germany, with the names of their favourite players on the back. The talk was about what a particular team must do, or who they had to introduce in order to win the game.

  At halftime, the score was one-all. A popular song by DJ Ganyani, “Xigubhu”, was playing. A lady with big buttocks stood up and danced, moving only her hips. The man sitting next to her stood up and danced behind her. His feet did not move. Only his erect penis inside his trousers bounced with the lady’s every hip movement. Each time she swayed her undulating hips, he ran his hand through the thin hair on his head and, with his arms held high, sang along to the song. In the corner, I noticed a male patron following the two dancers hungrily with his eyes, his lips loose and drooling. He was sitting at ease, his long legs stretched out. A ripple of desire passed through me as I watched the dancing woman’s suggestive moves. I rubbed my hands and passed them between my thighs. I leant backward and yawned. At the end of the song, panting and perspiring, the two dancers hugged each other. A few people clapped their hands in appreciation.

  The beer was going down well because of the music, the women, the smell of cigarettes and the company of football lovers and expert township soccer analysts. By this time, Druza lay sound asleep on his back in the corner. His great arms were folded. His bushy grey-and-black beard was rising and falling on his breast. He was drooling. The saliva was hanging downwards. Next to him, one lady had fits of harsh dry coughing. In between she giggled and hid her face.

  Unexpectedly, Druza emitted a silent, smelly fart. It was the kind of fart that penetrated people’s clothes before anyone could smell it. Anyone in the shebeen could tell that the person who farted did not eat healthily or was hungry, and did not eat fruits or vegetables at all. It could also be that they had eaten too many chillies. People started to look accusingly at our table. It was clear that they were debating whether it was the neat guy, who was obviously me, or the dirty guy, Druza. I looked down, avoiding the faces of surprised people whose eyes turned to me. Embarrassed, I did not know what to do. Part of me thought I should absolve myself by holding my nose while looking at Druza, or maybe by pretending to go to the bar. But the fart seemed to have entered my clothes and skin, and I was afraid it would go with me wherever I went. I felt like waking Druza and accusing him loudly so that everyone could hear, especially the girls who were still looking at us. Then I decided that I would also stare at Druza. It would be suspicious if I went to the counter because my beer was still full. I was in a difficult situation, like the man who tries to control his erect penis in a public space.

  Just as the second half of the game started, a woman came in. She was tall and strongly built. Her relaxed hair was wildly tousled and uncombed. As she came nearer, I recognised her. It was Druza’s sister, Mokgadi, my ex-girlfriend. Her face was caked with what looked like yesterday’s make-up. I had known her as a tall, thin girl who was just ripening into womanhood. I looked at her without interest. Childbearing and age had matured and disfigured Mokgadi’s once-beautiful body. She now had four children by three different men, and I knew she wanted me back. I guess she still hoped I would be her kids’ daddy because I heard the men were not taking care of the children. When we were still dating she told me that using a condom was like doubting the power of God. She insiste
d that we must let God protect us, not the condoms.

  One of the men who had been ogling the dancing couple now called to Mokgadi, his arms open. As she sat down next to the man, her eyes met mine with an intriguing look. I saw her say something to the man before she came and stood next to me. Then she noticed Druza, who was still sleeping.

  “Hello, dear,” she said to me. “My brother told me on the phone that you have been feeding him with alcohol since six.”

  She sounded like she had a cold. Her voice was huskier and more charming than ever. She had her hair cut in bangs, which reminded me she had once been a beautiful lady. We had to speak louder because of the shrill sound of laughter and amused voices of men and women. The man she had been talking to regarded us with distaste. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind as he sat there looking at us, his body tilted back a little. Mokgadi kept looking at him as she spoke. From my jealous and tipsy mind issued memories of gently touching her skin, eyes, mouth when we had been lovers.

  “Druza is lying to you. I only came here at seven to watch the game, not to buy him any beer.”

  “I know. I was only teasing you. But we need to talk about some businesses that I have in mind,” she said in a low voice. “Let me know when I can come to your place so that we can talk.”

  “I will let you know. But it will probably be next weekend because I’ll be on leave then.”

  “Okay dear.” Her breath was hot on my face. “Let me go talk to my friend and I will be back.”

  Before she left, Mokgadi woke Druza up and told him to go home and sleep. He didn’t argue with her. He opened his mouth as wide as he could, and shut it with a resounding snap of his teeth. Then he stood up and staggered out of the shebeen, hardly noticing the gestures of resentment from the people whose tables he nearly fell on.

  My mind was still on Mokgadi, who I thought was sadly withering with age, child-rearing and alcohol abuse. Tiny folds had formed around her neck, and her flat little breasts that I used to fondle seemed to have filled out. Her face, which might have been beautiful when we were still young, had turned dry. But her voice was still mellow. It was as if sweet oil had been poured down her throat.

  The game ended two-one in favour of Italy. Ivory Coast beat Japan two-nil. Everyone in the shebeen favoured Ivory Coast simply because they were an African team. The vuvuzelas and whistles were blown for a very long time. I looked around and there were only a few people left inside the pub. I was sitting next to Obakeng and Ona. Obakeng was dozing, with her chin on her chest and her mouth open. She was fully asleep, with a loud soundtrack of snoring. When Ona tried to wake her up, she replied sleepily, “It was just a one-night stand.” Some people laughed.

  I looked at Mokgadi jealously as she gave the man she was with strong signs of encouragement. She caught up the guy’s hand and pressed it to her cheek passionately. This clearly pleased him. The man laughed with curious grunting noises, such as only those blessed with obesity can emit. In less than ten minutes they left Hell’s Angels. Mokgadi forgot to say goodnight to me.

  It was almost two in the morning when Hell’s Angels parted with its last knot of customers. We came out of the shebeen gritting our teeth against the cold. My clothes stank of smoke so much that I felt sure I could be followed in complete darkness just by sniffing the air. As I came out my eyes met those of Ona. She gave me a broad drunken smile.

  “Who’s going home with me tonight?” she asked, a bottle in her hand. “Are you?”

  She placed her wobbly arms around me. I had considered the same woman ugly when I was sober, but now, after a few beers, she didn’t look bad at all. What was sex, after all, if not a biological measuring stick of your health and normality? Before I could answer Ona, a man turned and smiled at her. He was stumbling about like a baby.

  “I’m the one who bought beers for you,” he said to her, “not that guy.” He pointed at me with his nicotine-stained fingers before appealing to her again. “Let’s go, baby.”

  Ona shook her head rapidly, smiling all the time. I followed her. The hollow feeling I had felt earlier was now desire. As we walked home I kept thinking of what Ona must have been like in the time of her girlish beauty. The cold Soweto winter air crept into the sleeves of my jacket. My skin was already goose flesh. A drunkard ahead of us threw away the end of his cigarette. He was carrying a vuvuzela, and he started talking and gesticulating on his own. He stopped to pee in the street. The streetlight threw a blob of yellowish light on the pavement. When he was done, he blew his vuvuzela. Far ahead of us, another drunkard blew his louder as if he was competing with the first blower. This was followed by a whistle blown somewhere on the next street. Ahead of us, the man turned to enter the gate of a corner house. His shoes were shining where he had peed on them. My eyes followed him as he swayed drunkenly, holding a bottle by its neck.

  Upon reaching my room, I fumbled in my pocket for the key. To my surprise, the door was already unlocked. Maybe I had forgotten to lock when I left, I told myself. I took two steps forward and groped for the light switch. I was not that drunk. I immediately lay on the bed with my clothes on. Ona followed me into the room and started to take my shoes off. As she did this, I heard a sound. At first I thought it was a rat, but then I heard a door opening and someone running away. Ona gave a little shriek.

  I left her on the bed, grabbed the sledgehammer I keep behind the door and ran after the intruder. Outside, the dark at the end of the street was swallowing a figure that I suspected had come from my room. I could see his head and shoulders hanging down from the load he was carrying. I ran after the man, and my chest felt clogged. In front of me the road glistened with the reflection of the streetlights.

  “Vimba! Thiiba!” I shouted, and my voice echoed in the silent street. “Baamba! Catch the thief! Thiiibang.”

  The man kept going. Fortunately, he was not ready to let go of the loot, and I caught up with him easily. Minutes later, he stumbled and fell to the ground. I began thrashing him indiscriminately with the sledgehammer. He was wearing a balaclava and I aimed at his skull, but instead caught him on the elbows as he tried to avoid the blows with his hands. Coins rolled out of his pocket. He got back up, left the loot and ran with difficulty.

  “Vimba. Baaambaaa!” I shouted again. “Thiiiba! Viiiiimba! Thiiiii­bang!”

  Residents responded by coming out of their houses with all sorts of weapons. Some carried bars of iron and wood, others had knives, axes, spades and pikes. Vuvuzelas and whistles were blown to announce that a thief had been caught. People were in a bloody-minded rage. One woman shouted obscenities at the thief, another challenged him to a man-to-man fight. Two women got hold of him as he tried to climb a wall. Another one kicked him on the buttocks, and he fell to the ground with a slam that nearly shook the breath out of him. His knees were bleeding profusely. He snuffled vigorously and spat on the ground. The saliva was mixed with blood. I saw a thin stream of blood trickle from the corner of his mouth. In ten minutes, he was surrounded by a ring of women. Neighbours stood in front of their houses to observe the activities enviously. Two ladies held him firmly on the ground. One of them stepped on his balls as she took off the balaclava. The thief wriggled and writhed with pain and terror.

  “Vimba!” the woman shouted as she kicked him in the face.

  More people came and stood on both sides of the road. He was pushed, trampled, cornered and smothered. I looked around at the sea of faces, some hostile, some amused. As I stood in front of him, wielding the hammer that I had used to hit him on the knees, I was startled to recognise the thief.

  “Druza, is this you?” I said furiously through clenched teeth. “Why in hell?”

  I met his eyes below lifted eyebrows with a cold, impassive stare. All he could do was to shut his eyes tightly and hold his head with both hands. The women shook their fists, and I panted like a dog. The circle the crowd had formed kept opening and closing, embracing new arrivals. They began to talk in tones of suppressed agitation and anger.

/>   “I’m sorry,” Druza pleaded as his teeth chattered and knees knocked.

  I felt a blast of cold air chill me. I kicked him viciously in the chest. He let out a piercing cry of sorrow, a high-pitched note. He waved his hands in the air, desperately appealing for help. A woman punched him in the mouth and blood ran down his chin from a cut lip. Wide-eyed, another woman gazed at Druza. She was carrying a stick. She hit him hard with it while others kicked him. The blood from his mouth made a dark puddle next to the pavement.

  “You’re a thief! Your mother’s vagina stretches beyond the capacity of any penis to fill in this whole township,” said a woman with broad nostrils and projecting front teeth.

  The heavy stick crashed into the side of Druza’s head as he tried to steady himself. He fell down. The woman prodded him violently in the ribs with the stick. He twisted and squirmed in pain. She spat on him, and curled her lips in disgust. Druza lay curled up on the ground and people were busy turning him over as they beat him.

  “You piece of shit!” she said and poked him with a stick again. “Where is my microwave that you stole last month?”

  His eyes opened and closed. He mumbled. His mouth sounded dry and his tongue thick. His tongue had swollen and it seemed like he had bitten it.

  “It wasn’t me,” he said, shaking his head vigorously. “I swear I know nothing about the microwave. I only know of the DVD player.”

  “The belly of the woman who carried you was rotten,” cursed the woman, trying to hold her temper in check.

  Druza choked on a sudden surge of tears. A woman got out her knife and prepared to slit his throat. He groaned and clasped his head. I stood a few metres away. He was surrounded by many people who had suffered at his hands, and I understood their feelings. Druza’s distended nostrils were choked with more blood. He was writhing in pain, groaning and raising his arms to the sky in surrender.

  “Where is my TV?”

  “I sold it at the scrapyard,” he said, in a spasm of embarrassment.