by Niq Mhlongo
I got up and opened the safe. Took out the crisp bills and counted them. Forty thousand rand in total. I reassured myself that you had left it there for me because you wanted me to be taken care of. I rubbed the money over my face, my breasts, my thighs, as if it were your hands caressing me. I threw the bills on the bed and rolled in them. You would return – if not for me, then for your money. But as I kept trying to phone you all through the day, all I heard was the message: “The number you have dialled is not available.”
The next day, with still no word from you, I was furious. What if you had booked into another hotel with a prostitute? I threw a wine glass at the mirror. The glass landed on the floor in pieces. Maybe you had found my charms a little disappointing, I thought, as I flopped on the bed. Maybe I hadn’t lived up to your standards. Were you just afraid to tell me? I punched the pillows until my arms ached. Much later, I used tourism brochures to sweep up the shards of glass in the bathroom and throw them in the bin. I tried to make excuses for you. Maybe you had got lost and booked another room. But the previous night I had woken up and walked along the corridors in the middle of the night, listening to people’s voices. I had not heard yours. Exhausted, I fell on the bed and cried.
In the early hours of the morning I remained awake, despite trying my best to fall asleep. I kept saying to myself that you will come back. Businesspeople are like that, I thought to myself. I was thinking of being taken to Bali, an island renowned for its beauty, wealth and pleasant living. I imagined a roguish smile playing on your well-defined lips. I could see your upper lip curling upwards and stretching sensuously.
I had lost all desire to sleep. Sleep is most perfect when shared with a beloved. I began to pace up and down the room, as methodically as possible. As the morning went by, I passed easily from depression to joy, from joy to doubt, or indifference. I missed the warmth and security of your presence, the peace of the soul that it brought. I refused to believe that ours was simply a bodily passion; it was a spiritual love. Cling to life, Khabo. All you can do is hope that he will come back, I thought.
Somehow, at about ten in the morning, I decided you were no longer coming back. I was so tired of being cooped up and I wanted movement. Any movement would do, just to feel that I was going somewhere and was not just stationary, waiting in this room. I went down to reception to ask if they had seen you. To my surprise, they told me that you, my husband Andriano, were gone. They knew you as my husband because that’s what we told them when we checked in. You had told them that I would take care of the more than fifty-thousand-rand bill. There was forty thousand rand in the safe, and you had taken my debit card. But luckily you had left your credit card. I was not sure what the daily limit was, but if I paid forty thousand rand in cash, surely I could charge the rest to the card? I went back up to the room to fetch the money and the card.
As the man at reception tried to process the transaction he looked at me strangely. When the receipt printed, he checked it closely against the card. I held out my hand for the receipt. He didn’t hand it over. “Could you hold on a minute, ma’am?” he asked, turning away from me and dialling a number on a landline. A security officer and another man in a suit soon appeared.
“Ma’am, this card seems to be fraudulent. We have notified the bank and the authorities. You might be a victim of fraud and they will be able to help you. But now we must ask whether you have alternative means to pay the balance of your hotel bill.”
A fake credit card. You had left me a fake credit card. “Yes, I . . . I have more money in my room,” I lied and escaped to the lift as quickly as possible. I didn’t know what I was going to do. All I could think of was to go pack my few things. Most of those were the clothes you bought me with a fraudulent credit card.
In the room, I began to shake with huge sobs. A whining sound escaped from my throat. I couldn’t go back down. I couldn’t face any of it. So I simply climbed back into bed, pulling the covers over my head, trying to shut out reality. There was a price list on the nightstand. I picked it up and read it with rising panic. Then I crumpled it in my hand until it seemed my fingers were breaking around it. My insides shook. The fact was that the dream with you, my husband, in this lovely hotel room, had come to an end.
A violent fit of coughing in the corridor brought me back to my present condition. It was around eleven in the morning. I curled up in a ball, and hugged my knees up to my body. There was a knock on my door, and in a confused state I thought that maybe you had returned, that it was all a misunderstanding. I scrambled to open the door. But it wasn’t you. Instead there were three police officers in the corridor. One of them was stamping his left foot with impatience. He was white, taller than the other two, with short greying hair. The one behind him had a large, flat nose that sat across his bony face like a bullfrog. The third one was a tall lady with braids. A cold wave of fear washed over me.
“Are you Khabo Gasa?” The white man’s voice was hoarse and loud.
“Yes, sir. Is there anything wrong?”
“We have a warrant to search your room.”
“What did I do?” I asked innocently.
“You and your husband have given the man at the reception counterfeit money,” said the female police officer.
I gasped. “But I didn’t . . .”
I stared at the police, shivering like a drenched chicken. It was as if my whole horizon had been set alight. Not only was the card fraudulent but the money you had supposedly left to take care of me was counterfeit too. It was all fake. I blew my nose and wiped it and then began weeping. I wished to die at that moment. It was the only dignified thing to do, I thought, for the sake of my self-respect.
“And it seems you and your husband have been busy lately with a credit card scam.”
“He’s not my husband.”
I felt as if the walls of the room had drawn closer, gradually tightening an unfriendly grip around me. I could only draw my arms over my chest and clap my hands as if I was delirious.
“Enjoy your new bracelets,” said the white policeman, pointing at his handcuffs.
“I swear I don’t know him,” I begged.
No one wanted to listen to me. I was distraught and did not know what to do.
“We have been looking for the two of you. We have footage of you buying clothes with a fraudulent credit card.”
“I swear I don’t even know him.”
“You were trying to pay your hotel bill with counterfeit money and the same fraudulent card. You can’t deny it.”
I sat trembling in the Sandton police station interrogation room. My heart was brimming with contempt for you. I sobbed in desperation over my weakness. The police showed me all the videos of us in the clothing shops around Sandton City and the Mall of Africa, when you tricked me into signing for the clothes using your fraudulent credit card.
Here in the cell, my nose is filled with foul smells that make me want to vomit. I’m in a different world, a gloomy and depressing world that weighs me down, killing me day by day. I’ve carried this heavy saudade in my being since the day you left me. I’m still deeply hurt, but your image keeps fading away into a universe of unreality. Every time I try to sleep I recall something about you, at least of your appearance. Even in my dreams you’re difficult to reach, like a mirage. My heart pains me more and more. I know you do what you did to me with every beautiful girl you meet. You have made me stop trusting the world. You have made me hate the world. My heart has been broken before, but you are the first and the last person to break my life. Before I met you, I had seen, felt and been around pain and death. But after what you did to me, what else is there now to fear in life?
EVERY DOG HAS ITS DAY
Sitting next to the coffin were five men dressed in black suits. Thapelo concentrated on the tall thin man who was sucking his lips. He was sitting in the middle, and had a skinny neck that sprouted from his white shirt. The man looked distractedly about the marquee as he massaged the back of his shaven head with his left han
d. His gaze settled nowhere and was in constant search, from one mourner to another. Mr Lamola was his name, and he was a well-known carjacker who now lived in Orange Farm. He was the father of the deceased boy, Nino. Lamola’s face was placid, with no trace of anger. It was only when the pastor mentioned the deceased’s name that he frowned and nodded his head at every word.
Next to Thapelo, Nino’s mother, Abongwe, gave a low husky sob. She looked as if she hadn’t slept. Tears flowed down her face, and Thapelo slid his arm round her waist. He clasped her close. She pursed her lips and knitted her eyebrows as if to absorb the pain. Her emotional anguish triggered Thapelo’s physical pain. He could still feel the swelling of his left jaw where he had been gun-butted ten days ago.
Just as the pastor said Nino’s name, a dog padded into the marquee and walked up to the front. Thapelo could hardly believe it when he felt the dog rub against his legs. He looked down. It was Captain, Nino’s dog. This was indeed a miracle. Captain my Captain, as they called him, had disappeared about two weeks ago. The dog looked at Abongwe, his tail wagging. Her face turned into a brief smile. With his head resting on his front paws, Captain lay down in front of Thapelo and Abongwe. He had some scars on his back but otherwise he seemed fine.
As he looked at Lamola, Thapelo’s anger gradually rose. Lamola had never married Abongwe and they hadn’t been together since Nino was a baby. Abongwe hated the father of her child. Thapelo had his own reasons for despising Lamola. His whole body still ached as he tried to piece together what had happened on that day. He was shivering, and a chill was creeping over his body and head. But outwardly he remained thoughtful and calm. Glancing at Abongwe’s crying face, Thapelo felt guilty for his inability to shed tears. Somehow, he felt responsible for the boy’s death.
On that Saturday morning of the day of the funeral, the street was closed from one end to the other. It was the first time that three funerals had been held in Dobsonville on the same day at the same time. There was a pervasive feeling of misery. Three marquees were erected in the middle of the street, a hundred metres apart. In the next street, there was a wedding going on. The wedding could not be postponed as the preparations were already underway when the news came of Nino and his friends’ death. Anyway, everyone understood that postponing a wedding is expensive and regarded as a symbol of bad luck. It could mean that the bride remains a spinster for the rest of her life, which is a big deal here in the township. Or it may signify that the husband or wife will die shortly after the marriage. Others think it could indicate that the couple may not be blessed with children, or that they will soon divorce. Therefore, the Dobsonville people had to deal with the fact that the marriage and the three funerals were happening on the same day.
Nino and his two friends were found dead in the veld between Grasmere and Orange Farm. They were all aged nineteen and lived in the same street. Their bodies had no gunshot wounds, nor were there any other open wounds when they were found. Rumour was that they had taken an overdose of drugs. Even when the autopsy pointed at poisoning, people in the township still believed drugs to be the cause.
Part of the secret was known only to Thapelo, but he was still processing the events. Next to him, Abongwe burst into tears again.
On weekdays at 7:30 pm, Thapelo and Abongwe would board the Gautrain together to travel from Midrand to Johannesburg Park Station. At first, he did not know her name. For the first few days he had tried not to look at her, not to speak with her, but his eyes involuntarily turned to her and followed her movements once they left the train. Even when the train was empty, Thapelo would sit next to her. Their eyes said so much to each other without the necessity of words. Occasionally, their eyes met in a fleeting glance of mutual approval and respect. Sometimes Thapelo would turn his eyes towards her, but she did not look at him or raise her eyes. He pretended to listen to his music, but at the same time he would try to analyse her. She had a most captivating smile, though she was not a great beauty. He thought she was one of those women who would bind themselves for pure love and admiration.
Abongwe later told him that she thought he looked like a man utterly devoted to his profession, one she did not at first care to know. She would usually be reading a book, and Thapelo liked to listen to music on his cellphone. At Park Station, Thapelo would get into his car, which he left at the parking lot, and drive to his home. Abongwe took the Rea Vaya bus to Dobsonville. Sometimes Thapelo also used the Rea Vaya bus. Even when the bus was not full, Thapelo would come and sit on the same seat or nearest to Abongwe as if pulled by some magnet. Still, their conversation would be limited to “hello” and “hi”.
Things changed during the week of the Rea Vaya strike. As usual, they took the 7:30 pm train from Midrand to Park Station. It was a cold day. Coming out of the station, Thapelo turned up the collar of his black coat and stuffed his hands into his pockets. The fragrance of earth mixed with rain filled the air. The cars slithered over the wet Rissik Street. People were speeding away to get shelter before the storm broke again. That was the day he offered to drive her home.
When he dropped her off on that first day, Captain snarled at him resentfully but stopped short of biting him. He started to bark furiously, but quieted down after Abongwe discouraged him. Shame-faced, he wandered and sniffled past the car. The dog trotted to a puddle and lapped at the muddy rain water before he started to dig playfully in the dirt near the gate. A few days later they were friends. When Thapelo would visit Abongwe – visits that became increasingly regular – Captain would come to the car door, his tail tucked between his legs. His nose would be almost touching the ground, indifferent to all. Captain would head-butt Thapelo’s foot lightly. Thapelo would pat him, and he would raise his head. He would then wag his tail and turn over on his back.
Thapelo and Abongwe’s relationship was first limited to hugging and kissing. But as their emotions and passion grew stronger Abongwe invited Thapelo into her bed. Now Thapelo can’t help feeling as if he is betraying her by not telling her the truth about Nino.
Abongwe’s sobs increased when Nino’s former teacher, Mrs Rakoma, stood up to say a few words. The teacher’s voice was dry and stumbling when she started to talk about drug abuse in the township and in schools. In the middle of her speech her voice started flowing smoothly.
“Nowadays our children turn into rapists and murderers at a very young age. We as parents allow that to happen. Just go to the park and you’ll see what I’m talking about. Children too young for school or playing truant have taken over the park. They have turned it into a vast playground of drug using. Just go to the park, and you’ll be met by these children’s miserable frightened looks because that’s where they smoke their nyaope and other drugs.” She paused and looked at Abongwe, and then at Lamola.
There was a deadly silence while she wiped the sweat from her forehead. Lamola nodded quietly and then shook his head. He looked embarrassed, then annoyed. When he raised his haggard face again, his eyes looked up, not with any interest or curiosity, but with a dull mechanical awareness.
“Today you can’t send a child to buy something at the shop. If you do, you’ll risk that child being robbed by these nyaope boys. They also rob the shops owned by the Pakistanis to buy their fix, and the government still thinks this is related to xenophobia. No, it is a drug problem and not xenophobia. These nyaope addicts terrorise our people as they go to work in the morning and in the evening when they come back from work.” She paused.
This time Mrs Rakoma was so angry that she was foaming at the mouth: “I’ve had the aerial of my car stolen many times at the school and malls by these addicts. Just yesterday I fought with my friend for buying a stolen VW Polo aerial from a nyaope boy. My own son stole his father’s BMW car badge three times,” Mrs Rakoma admitted. “I’m talking about my very own boy, Lindo. He is a drug addict. First, he was on dagga, then on nyaope, then on tik, and now he has graduated to something bigger called cocaine and mandrax. Once, in 2012, I got a court interdict against him and took him t
o rehab as a concerned mother. This was after he had become aggressive and dangerous in the house. He sold most of our valuables. He broke our flatscreen TV set, probably to get a smoking or inhaling substance from it.” She paused and clapped her hands. “That was it for me. His father and I handed him to the police, but now he is out. Still we are not allowing him in our house.” She paused again. “It’s time we do something as parents and as a community. There is no supernatural solution to this problem. We must strengthen the important roles of structures such as community policing forums and neighbourhood watches.”
The reality of her words sent a chill through everyone. Her eyes rested on Abongwe again, and she didn’t take them off for a long time. It was a look of empathy, not of reprimand, and Abongwe seemed comforted by her attention. Lamola’s haggard face turned to Abongwe before his eyes dropped again.
Thapelo opened his eyes wide and leaned his head forward to indicate that he was listening. He laid his finger against his nose and frowned. He clasped his other hand in Abongwe’s and it remained there, warm and inert. His breathing sounded harsh to his own ears; next to him, Abongwe looked like she couldn’t hold back her tears.
Thapelo’s sense of guilt was crushing him, but he kept his face expressionless. His mind vividly replayed the events of his car hijacking and kidnap ten days earlier. His whole body trembled with fever and anger and he shrank within himself as he recalled it.