by Niq Mhlongo
He was about to open the gate of his Glen Ridge home when three boys wearing balaclavas suddenly appeared. One pointed a gun at his head. Everything happened so fast, and his heart froze with terror. He instinctively raised his arms in the classic gesture of surrender. The tallest boy jabbed him hard with the gun on the jaw and nose and in the ribs. He wore a battered slouch hat over his balaclava, and a greasy white jacket with ragged old jeans. Thapelo’s wrists were held behind his back by another boy. He remembered letting out two piercing cries. It was the voice of someone who is dying when hope of being saved is gone. They took his cellphone and wallet before bundling him into the boot of his Polo Vivo and driving off. He was still conscious, but bleeding from the nose. He kept trying to clear his throat and passing his tongue over his bleeding lips.
Inside the boot of the car he was engulfed in darkness. He grunted loudly, struggling against the pain. A fever gnawed at his bones. It throbbed in his temples, burnt his body and made him pray from time to time. Trembling, he lay there uncomfortably and clenched his teeth. They drove for about an hour. He felt the road under the wheels. He heard a piece of metal clatter on the tar, but they did not stop. He rolled his tongue around his mouth and felt that the bleeding had stopped. With his head drawn close to his chest in the cramped space, he gasped for breath. He could hear the air hissing and stabbing through his lungs. His chest was heaving. His knees trembled. “Suppress your fear, face your threat, anticipate the danger coming,” he told himself.
While they were driving, he was sure that his kidnappers were trying to locate the tracker system. He listened carefully to voices loud with exhilaration.
“Did you find it, dog?” asked one. “We need to be fast before the tracker is activated.”
At first, Thapelo didn’t suspect that he might know his kidnappers. As far as he was concerned, every kid in the township called themselves “dog” nowadays.
“Finally did, dog. Give me the screwdriver.”
He heard the glove compartment being opened. Then the car came to a stop. Thapelo was biting his knuckles to keep from hyperventilating. Let there be divine intervention, he prayed. He didn’t know where he was, and he was terribly afraid. With eyes closed, he listened. His lips trembled and his nose perspired in defeat.
“Look what I’ve found, dog.”
“What’s that, a straight of Jack Daniel’s?”
“Yeah, dog. Time to celebrate before we drop the car off at timer’s.”
He heard them laugh. That was the last sound he heard from his kidnappers. After that there was silence. Writhing inwardly, he kept as still as possible. He counted to a hundred and still there was no sound from his kidnappers. Even when he tried to open the boot, no one tried to stop him. His heart flooded with relief as he searched in the dark for something to help him move the back seat. He found the big spanner he kept next to the spare wheel. Eventually he managed to shift the seat. It pushed against something and he felt a heavy weight fall forward. Thapelo was sweating as he crouched, his tongue hanging out. The wound on his jaw felt swollen and inflamed. His elbows felt like eggshells.
He straightened his back and wiped his face. Then he saw that one boy had been on the back seat and had fallen forward as Thapelo had crawled out. The other two were in the front seats, not moving. For a moment, he thought his kidnappers were asleep, and he was terrified that they would wake up. But he had been making a lot of noise and they hadn’t woken yet. As he jumped out of the car, he realised the truth: they were dead. The driver was still holding the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. The car keys were still in the ignition and the engine was idling. On the back seat the kidnapper’s jaw had dropped as if to show the traces of where the last of his breath had come from. Thapelo didn’t know what to do. He simply stood outside by the car, catching his breath. He kicked a wheel, muttered and walked around the car a few times.
Dawn had arrived by that time. When Thapelo tried to take the gun from between the front seats, he noticed the driver’s balaclava on the dashboard. He recognised Nino, and the other two were his friends Waka and Lelo. The realisation hit him so suddenly that for a few minutes he just stood there in a kind of shocked, uneasy bewilderment. His throat felt as though a giant hand was squeezing it. These were the boys he always saw in the streets in Dobsonville as they played one-pole soccer games and called each other “dog”. They always greeted him with a smile and called him “timer”. Sometimes he would let them wash his car for a fifty-rand tip. He thought about the cellphone and PlayStation game that he had bought for Nino. How could they do this to him?
Thapelo opened and closed his eyes to make sure he was not dreaming. Thapelo examined Nino’s face. He felt desperately sorry for Abongwe.
Thapelo wiped his face and exhaled slowly. The programme was about to finish, but there was one speaker left. Lamola was called to speak, but he did not move from his chair. He remained seated with his head cast down, his chin stabbed into his chest as if in a trance. His eyes were closed and he shook his head slowly. When the programme director called his name again, he stood sternly upright. The mourners regarded him with a mixture of curiosity, pity and unease. Abongwe knitted her brows, looking at him intently. She cursed him under her breath.
“Useless bastard! Liar!”
She expelled air from her nose after each curse. Lamola gathered himself and tried to speak, but his nose seemed blocked. Abongwe tried to ignore him. Thapelo knew she blamed Lamola for her son’s wayward behaviour and ultimate death. About six and a half months ago the police had recovered an estimated million rands’ worth of car tyres, rims and mags from his Orange Farm workshop. He had been arrested and charged with possession of suspected stolen property. Implements that could be used for breaking into houses were also found in his workshop. But Lamola never spent a day inside a prison cell because of his connections with the police.
While Lamola spoke of their loss, Abongwe clicked her tongue and shook her head. Thapelo put his hand softly on Abongwe’s hair and began smoothing it. He recalled one Saturday when he visited her, when their relationship was still new.
Thapelo had locked his Polo Vivo, as he always did when he went to Abongwe’s house. When he was about to leave, around midnight, he found that the car had been broken into. The thieves had taken the music system and all four wheels. It took him about three months to replace all the items stolen from the car, including his laptop, some clothes and shoes. The next day, at SS Properties, where he worked in the Mall of Africa, an elderly colleague, Mr Mvelase, advised Thapelo to consult a sangoma in Tembisa.
“You boys of today don’t believe in traditional medicine, but it works,” the man said. “That’s why all you boys have bad luck. As a man, you must protect yourself with traditional medicine. Last year someone broke into my house in Ivory Park and stole my things. I went to Madlokovu, and my things were brought back, one by one, by those boys. Some were brought back by the people who bought those stolen things from them. I tell you the truth.”
Thapelo was more concerned about the information on his stolen laptop. Three days later, he asked Mvelase to take him to the sangoma Madlokovu in Tembisa. Madlokovu’s indumba was an ordinary two-roomed shack divided by a large red-and-white cloth. There was no furniture inside, and Thapelo had to sit on a grass mat. All around him, he could see Madlokovu’s hoard of traditional medicine. In front of him sat Madlokovu, with his heavy lower jaw and full beard. The sangoma’s eyes seemed to look deep into Thapelo’s heart and soul. When he spoke, Madlokovu’s nostrils dilated as if he was trying to catch the scent of Thapelo’s problem. After Thapelo explained that he was seeking protection, Madlokovu asked him if he drank. When Thapelo said no, the sangoma gave him a bitter muthi called sekgopha and mulibatsha to drink. Then he gave him what looked like two half-full bottles of whisky; one was Jack Daniel’s and the other Jameson. But the sangoma warned Thapelo that these were no ordinary whisky bottles; they were his protection against evil. He was asked to keep one in the glove compartment o
f his car and the other inside his house at all times. He was never to remove the bottles or drink the contents.
Captain my Captain walked over to Abongwe and rubbed against her chair, as if sympathising with her for their loss. He didn’t want to walk away, even though someone was throwing pebbles at him. He just sat behind Abongwe’s chair, whining and grumbling muffled insults in dog language. Where had he been, Thapelo wondered. The dog’s brown eyes seemed dilated with pain and sorrow. His brown coat had many white patches acquired in fights with other dogs. Nino was still alive the day that Captain had disappeared. Thapelo had seen Nino walking with Captain past the Dobsonville Cemetery towards the nearby mine dump. A number of other owners were taking their dogs there. The animals barked and gambolled around with menacing excitement. Some of the dogs turned their backs and began to smell under each other’s tails. Captain was running around his master, barking. Thapelo knew that the mine dump was used for illegal dog fights.
As if suddenly becoming aware of the proximity of the fighting pit, Captain began to bark even more frantically, trying to get away from Nino and the leash. Somehow, he slipped free and no amount of whistling or cajoling could bring him back. He just snarled and showed his teeth from a distance. Other dogs ran towards him. Captain fled, pursued by the other dogs. Gaining on him, they snapped at his hind legs, only leaving him when he was whining with pain. The boys stood clapping as they watched the show. When Nino tried to go near him, Captain snarled ferociously and would have bitten him if Nino had not jumped out of the way. He kicked dust at the dog and left him there. Captain turned and slouched away. No one had seen him again until the funeral. After the incident, Nino had come stomping past Thapelo. As the boy looked at him, Thapelo saw only malice and unbounded cruelty in Nino’s eyes. He saw someone with more evil in his heart than any murderer. Yet Abongwe had always protected Nino by saying he was not made in his father’s evil mould. When Thapelo reported this incident to Abongwe, she simply brushed it aside.
“Boys will be boys. At times they hear, and then at other times they don’t, even if the sound is as loud as that of the barking dog in the still of the night,” she said softly.
Thapelo faced a dilemma. Since the hijacking, he felt as if he couldn’t breathe when he was with Abongwe. How could he keep seeing her without telling her the secret he knew about her son’s death? There was a lump in his throat that he could not cough up or swallow.
Next to him, Abongwe let out a piercing cry. “Why my son?” she asked with a dazed expression, between hiccups of distress. “I warned him about his association with his father, with the bad boys. I’ve always warned him that one day he’ll find a string around his neck that he can’t pull off, but he never listened.”
SOWETO, UNDER THE APRICOT TREE
After the unveiling of the tombstone, we are gathered at my home in Chi Town, Soweto. The apricot tree in the yard is beginning to shed its leaves as we approach autumn. The sun is shining brightly, and the tender yellowish leaves are rustling in the slight wind. My mother tells me that this tree is sacred and produces only one mysterious rotten apricot annually.
We are sitting in the shade of the tree and my mother looks happy. Her eyes are sparkling with unusual brilliance. Two of my uncles, Bhodloza and Sunday, are here as well. Uncle Bhodloza is wearing his black-rimmed glasses. When he laughs, he reveals his gap and a tooth that is stained brown. It’s amazing how clean clothes have transformed his lean body. I’m used to him wearing his favourite green overalls. Today he’s in the black trousers and a blue golf shirt that I gave him a couple of weeks ago. Recently, my mother warned him to stop wearing those overalls because he is unemployed and living at the Kliptown squatter camp. She told him that overalls are only worn at work, and that people who wear them while unemployed are confusing God. Uncle Sunday’s clothes, especially his shirts, are always sharply ironed, and today is no exception.
Other relatives and friends are scattered around our yard. They are drinking, smoking or eating. The noise is deafening because of the crowd and the Teenage Lovers’ song “Mayanka” on the giant speakers placed on the stoep. People have come to celebrate after the erection of my Uncle Tso’s tombstone at Avalon this morning. Uncle Tso was my mother’s brother who passed away a year ago. As is traditional, the family went to the Avalon Cemetery before sunrise to perform the necessary rituals and talk to our ancestors. A goat has been slaughtered, as well as a few chickens. Now it’s time for the feast, umqombothi drinking and stories. The smell of the stew cooking comes to my nose. My childhood friend Siya is here too, and we are sitting next to each other under the apricot tree. Ours is a special kind of friendship that doesn’t need conversation to sustain itself.
Nothing can induce our dog, Bruno, to stay in his kennel, despite the rags and an old blanket that have been piled up for his comfort by my mother. He paces around the yard for a while, then settles down on the stoep, not far from the speakers. He curls up to sleep with his nose tucked into his belly. Four pigeons settle on one of the top branches of the tree. A few leaves break off and carpet the reddish earth with their yellow and green. Next to my mother, Uncle Bhodloza is eating pap, chicken and goat meat. He has the habit of talking with food in his mouth, but surprisingly today he is simply concentrating on his colourful plate, which looks like a giant anthill. I can see the rainbow colours of the beetroot, pumpkin, cucumber, chakalaka, cabbage, rice, pap and meat. Because he is missing a few teeth he chews the meat with care. Each swallow is marked by the rise and fall of his plum-sized Adam’s apple. Flies are buzzing around his plate. At the same time, my mother peers down the middle of a bone. She sucks it with her eyes shut, and stops only for a moment to say something. Her voice is full of pride and satisfaction.
“This apricot tree was planted in 1963. That’s what the apartheid government did when it moved black people into Soweto. They planted fruit trees for almost every matchbox house. A grapevine in front of the house. At the back they planted two fruit trees, a peach and an apricot tree, or a peach and plum tree. We were moved in with this apricot tree. Our peach tree died a few years ago. It used to be over there.” She indicates the spot with a nod of her head. Then she looks at me. “This apricot tree is as old as this Midway part of Chi Town, a year older than you, my son. This tree has witnessed lots of things.”
“But why did they plant fruit trees?” Siya asks, taking a sip from a can of Castle Lite.
“I don’t know. Maybe it was to fool us and make us believe that this place was better than where we used to live in Sophiatown, Western and elsewhere. But it was not only fruit trees that they planted. There were also a few tall bluegum trees.” She points with the bone at the front corner of the house. “We had one in the corner there in front of the house, next to the drainage system. You boys were already grown up when your late father cut it down, remember that, Sipho? Its roots were a problem to the floor inside the house, and the windows cracked all the time.”
I nod and she continues.
“Before these houses were built between 1962 and 1963 this place was a big farm called Albertville where people could buy livestock. Some people called it Albertine, but this was before it was given a Venda name, Tshiawelo, meaning ‘a place to rest’.”
My mother is seventy-seven years old, but to look at her you would never guess it. She is as sprightly as a woman at least ten years younger, with a moderately wrinkled but quite beautiful face and lovely brown eyes. Like any other black woman her age I know around this place, she has mastered the art of putting the past behind her. But today she racks her memory in an effort to recall, at all costs, the various experiences through which she has lived.
“Your umbilical cords, all five of them, shrivelled and fell off in this house. They are buried here,” she says, as if the falling-off was the true birth, the real beginning of the life she gave us.
Uncle Bhodloza drinks a glass of water after eating some raw green chillies. Beads of sweat cover his forehead. The water seems to cool him and
help soothe the burning in his mouth. He picks up the last piece of meat and chews slowly. His eyes move from my mother to me with full appreciation of the food. The plate is so clean that it shines. The appetising smell of cooking wafts out to the tree from the open kitchen window.
My younger sister Thembi opens the door and comes out to collect the empty plates. She is still wearing an apron. She leaves the door open, and soon the smell of frying onions reaches my nose. But before she takes the empty plate from Uncle Sunday, he darts a glance at us and cleans the plate thoroughly with his bent forefinger. Bruno has woken up and comes to pick up a bone that my uncle has just thrown on the ground. He lies at Uncle Sunday’s feet and eats the bone. Uncle Sunday bends down and touches Bruno gently with his fingers. My mother chases Bruno away, and he removes himself to the gate where he sits penitently. His tongue hangs from his mouth. When more guests arrive, he walks in front of them as if guiding them into the yard.
Uncle Bhodloza is sitting on a beer crate with his back against the tree trunk, his whole attention concentrated on the umqombothi beer in front of him. A thought seems to strike him as he puts the big glass down. There is a dirty smudge on the glass where he has made contact. He scratches the right side of his greying head. The kitchen door opens again, and Thembi comes out to dish up more food for the people.
Uncle Bhodloza’s eyes turn to Siya. “You see that branch where the pigeons have just settled? That’s where your father committed suicide.” A shocked silence descends on us. We were not expecting him to talk about that past. But Uncle Bhodloza continues: “We used to call him Ten Years and he was a great friend of my swaer, Sipho’s father. We found him hanging in the morning. That was about six months after he was released from danyani. He had spent ten years in the Johannesburg prison.”
My mother looks at Siya to see his reaction, and he shrugs his shoulders with indifference. In an endeavour to plumb the depth of this mystery, which seems to be now buried in the distant past, my uncle taps his head. I look up at the tree branch, which stirs as the pigeons fly away. The tree drops a worm-ridden fruit onto Siya’s thigh. He blinks and tries to smile.