by Raven, R. D.
Maxine fill fly home tomorrow. She said she can't "stand being in a place where people are fucking crazy."
She obviously hasn't hung out at The Jungle before, thinking such behavior is only limited to South Africa.
Many of the other foreign students have also left.
I am at Miguel's place. Thandie is here with me but she'll be going back soon.
Miguel is ... not doing well. That's an understatement. I don't want to say anything more about it.
Sandile was pronounced dead on arrival.
I know I'm jumping around. I just want to let you know everything that's on my mind and then get on with my day, my week.
I'll be here for as long as Miguel needs me.
That's all I have to say.
I love you.
Bye.
Jaz
Comments closed for this post.
raeinseattle.blogspot.com
BRING JAZ CURTIS HOME!
Posted on: Fri, Sep 20th, 2013 at 07:16am, Pacific Time
Posted by: raeinseattle
# Comments: 2
This is a post for my best friend Jaz. She's in South Africa where things have just gone insane! As you all know, South Africa has had some really bad problems with RACISM in the past—and they're still doing it!
Yeah, while we were emancipating and shit, they were putting our African-American friends in SLAVE CAMPS!
Jaz, people don't change. That country has its own problems.
Come home to the USA.
COME HOME!
We're here for you!
[IMG_7523.jpg]
Jacquie, Priscilla (fellow cheerleaders—W00T!) and me cheering for Jaz to come home
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Matt (yeah, we're back together!) and his crew cheering for Jaz to come home
See, baby? We all love you up here. Come back to where it's safe! Get on with your life!
Your best friend 4ever and eva—Rae! Xoxo
3 Comments:
Comment from: Brenda
Posted on: Fri, Sep 20th, 2013 at 08:16am, Pacific Time
Yo, Rae. It's "African," not "Africa-American," you idiot.
Reply from: raeinseattle
Posted on: Thu Fri, Sep 20th, 2013 at 08:20am, Pacific Time
> Bitch! Matt chose me, now FUCK OFF!
> He doesn't love you anymore! Skank!
TWENTY-SIX
Friday became Saturday, became Sunday, became Monday. Miguel showed little progress, and Jaz had started to more than worry. Thandie had left on the Saturday. She went to be with Sandile's family. Sandile's father had called a few times and Jaz told him what was happening with Miguel. He spoke to Miguel a few times, but Miguel stayed stoic, not reacting, not saying much at all.
The cops had also come by. They asked Miguel a few questions and he answered succinctly and then sunk back down into the hole he'd been in since the incident, not a glint of hope in his eyes that they'd actually find anything after they left.
— Mr. Pinto, did you actually see this Tsepho shoot Sandile?
— Yes.
— Was he alone?
— Yes.
— Do you know where to find this Tsepho?
— No. But he deals for a guy in Hillbrow—Nigerian, likes to call himself "God."
— Yes, we've checked Hillbrow, but there's no known address for this Tsepho there, and, as you know, nobody talks very much to the police in Hillbrow. And this "God" character is about as elusive as … well … you know what I mean. Was Sandile using drugs?
— No.
— Are you sure?
— Very.
— I see. OK, Mr. Pinto. Thank you for your time. We'll keep you informed as to any developments.
And that was the last Jaz had heard of them. And the last full sentences out of Miguel's mouth.
She and Miguel's dad spoke sometimes while Miguel sat on the couch or when he dozed off for a few minutes at a time on it. Overall, Senhor Pinto (who looked a little like Mario of the Mario Brothers) was friendly and accommodating. He did some shopping and cooked a bit so that Jaz would have some food.
Miguel didn't eat much.
Watching Miguel had started having the disturbing feeling of being like watching a real life occurrence of The Stepford Wives—and Miguel was one of the wives, acting as if nothing was wrong in the whole world. Although Miguel didn't smile or laugh or act as if nothing had happened, he also didn't do anything else. He'd wake up, go down to the TV room, flick on some talk-show and sit with his hands folded in his lap, watching. Jaz knew he wasn't really watching, because he'd sit for hours and hours looking at infomercials sometimes. She sat next to him every moment she had. The boredom had been killing her. She'd lost his Kindle, and when she remembered that, a feeling of great regret came over her, like the Kindle had meant so much more than it really did.
But she realized that, on some level, she'd probably equated the loss of the Kindle with the loss of something so much greater that day.
Jaz had shed more than one tear for Sandile by now. And every time she thought of him, she turned away from Miguel or went to the bathroom or walked for a bit outside and then, once her tears had dried, went back inside.
Miguel never said anything.
Once or twice she'd seen his hand fly over to the phone on the side table by the couch, as if wanting to suddenly call someone, but then his hand would go back to meet the other, and there they'd sit again, motionless.
After three days, Miguel's thoughts began to congeal. There had been enough distance of time between now and the incident for him to finally face—in his mind—what had occurred, and his thinking was becoming lucid. The only thing he needed to solve now ... was Jaz.
He appreciated her being there. But there was a time when a woman needed to step aside and just let a man do what he needed to do.
He'd heard that line so many times. Only now did he appreciate its merciful truth. There are certain things a woman should never have to face: death, pain, vengeance, hate, sorrow. All the ugly things that life has to offer. This is the realm of men, hiding the atrocities of the world for them so they can continue to provide the comfort a man so desperately needs so he can face those things on her behalf; comfort in the form of a warm smile, an easy embrace.
And Miguel needed to do this.
It was a question of honor.
It was a question of ... finality.
By the Monday, four days after the incident, he was becoming more aware of his environment. Jaz talking to his father had stopped being a random set of voices in the distance, but actual distinct sentences.
His only chance to leave would be when Jaz fell asleep.
He knew she wasn't sleeping much. Neither was he. But he was wired now, and she wasn't.
He'd seen her puffy eyes at times when she walked away and went outside—no doubt when she was remembering Sandile.
And Sandile would be remembered. Miguel would also remember him. And he would also mourn him, eventually.
But there were things that needed to be done first.
It was Monday night (or early Tuesday morning, depending on how you looked at it) and Jaz could have sworn she'd seen more movement in Miguel's eyes that day, as if he no longer had that dazed, out-of-touch look in him that he'd carried the previous few days. But something wasn't right, because, although the life seemed to have returned to his eyes, he seemed to still be acting as if he was lost in some world other than the one they were all supposed to be sharing.
Acting. She couldn't believe she was saying this about him, but it had been her gut feeling.
Miguel? Are you OK? she had asked him earlier that day as he'd flipped onto old reruns of the A-Team on TV.
Of course! he'd said—and that was exactly what had freaked her out. Because this time, he'd smiled, as if he were putting on a show. As if, behind his eyes, he'd been planning something.
It was the problem with Miguel (this much she knew about him): he brooded. To this day, ever since
they'd known each other, Miguel had not once spoken about his mother and sister to her. He'd never once opened up to her about what happened to them on that day—the day that had brought him and Sandile together with a bond that no one could ever understand but the two of them.
Surely that couldn't be healthy.
Jaz sat with her back to the wall and her arms around her knees, watching Miguel as he slept on the floor next to his bed. Other than the first night (when he'd been too zombied out to even notice what was happening around him), every other night he had refused to sleep on his bed so long as she was there, saying that, if she insisted on staying with him, she should at least take the bed—long story short, neither of them took it. Jaz was too afraid to go to sleep, wanting to keep every moment she had with her eyes on him. Miguel's father had also made up the guest bedroom for her. Not once had she used it.
The only light in the room was from a sliver of moon outside. Jaz's back felt like it was made of bricks. Every muscle in it was hard and sore from leaning against the wall for the fifth night in a row. Her neck felt like it had been held up on a meat hook for days. What she wouldn't give for a soft bed or a warm shower.
Her eyes began to close and she rested her head on the wall, looking out into the glowing clouds. The scene began to fade as she dozed off for seconds at a time. That's how her sleep had felt for the last few days—a few seconds awake, a few seconds asleep.
She hadn't showered in days. She barely went to the bathroom, ever afraid to leave Miguel alone.
It was not normal that Miguel had not shed a tear since Thursday. He'd cried in the first few moments, but not a drop since. Jaz was no shrink, but it didn't take an expert to know that this was very, very bad.
Like floating gossamer, the thought had come to her mind of what people were capable of in this state, after having lost so much that they had nothing left to lose. And, although no particular memory or idea came to mind, she couldn't help but briefly entertain the thought that, when Miguel did explode (because he would, this she knew) that he would do something that might cause her to lose him forever.
And she hadn't lost him. Not yet. She knew that. Even though they weren't dating, he was still here. There was still hope.
And, at this stage, she didn't even care about that—dating or not dating, the thought that Miguel might even simply ... cease to exist ... had given his life a whole new meaning to her.
One death did not immediately mean that another life should be lost.
Her eyes burned from exhaustion. She felt her head drop to the side.
Then she awoke again.
Then her head dropped again. Sleep.
She awoke.
Drop.
Sleep.
Miguel was wide awake. He would do it tonight. He lay with his back to Jaz and listened to her breathing. The poor girl. She needed a break. After tonight, she'd get one. After tonight, all would be OK. He would mourn Sandile's death with her, peaceful that he had not died unavenged.
He heard her breathing become more regular, then a grunt of awakeness, then regular, regular, regular ….
She was sleeping now.
He lifted himself up, stopping for a moment as the floor creaked—but Jaz continued to sleep.
She was curled up on the ground. A wave of sadness came over him seeing her there. She was so lovely, so caring, so beautiful. No one should ever have to see what she saw—with Sandile. At least she never saw the actual gunshot.
She was completely passed out. He crouched down next to her on his haunches so that he'd be able to use his legs for strength, slid his arms underneath her shoulders and thighs and ever so gently lifted her up.
He stumbled back for a moment, and she opened her eyes briefly. His heart raced.
"Shhhhh, shhhh, it's OK, Jaz. It's OK," he said, holding her in his arms to look at her for only a second.
The poor girl was so wiped out that she barely noticed anything, her eyes closing just as fast as they had opened. Miguel laid her down on the bed, and tucked his pillow under her head. He covered her with the comforter, and looked out into the sky, lit only by a milky wash of moonlight against the clouds.
He stroked her hair once.
He opened his drawer quietly, and pulled out the brown envelope with his money in it. He felt that there were some coins in it—useless, really—but decided to leave them there in case he woke Jaz up by moving them. "God" (who Sandile and he had given the name "Igbo" to—a random Nigerian name they'd found on the internet, hating the blasphemous sound of the drug lord's chosen nickname) would want payment in exchange for the information Miguel needed. The cops might not have gotten Tsepho's address, but Miguel knew (hoped) that Tsepho was a problem that "Igbo" needed to solve. Miguel had bought enough shit and been in the scene long enough in the past to know that a death was no good unless it brought money—and even then, killing a person only closes that potential business. Igbo would've never ordered a hit on Sandile. What for? So long as Sandile lived and got an education and made lots of money, he'd be great future business. What Tsepho did was just plain, fucking, stupid. If Igbo hadn't taken care of it himself by now (Miguel fucking prayed that he hadn't) then he would be taking care of it soon enough. Because if Tsepho talked, this could prove to be very bad for Igbo's business.
At least this is what Miguel was hoping. If he was wrong … well, he tried not to think about that. He needed this.
He grabbed his high-tops and made his way to his father's room. When he got in, he crept to his bedside table, opened the drawer gently, felt inside underneath the socks and handkerchiefs, and then found it: that fresh touch of cold steel.
Hate filled his mind.
He took the gun.
It was odd: he had sensed that, maybe, he would've felt a little more relief knowing he was so close to doing what he needed to do. And yet, all he felt now, was shame, as if what he was about to do was somehow … wrong?
Bullshit!
In the hallway, he checked that the gun was loaded—it was—and then stuck it in his belt and crept out.
As he walked past his bedroom door, he heard Jaz moan. "Miguel?" It was a half-asleep, half-awake moan. Again: "Miguel?" as if she was dreaming. He paused for a second, a bead of sweat now tickling his temple.
"Miguel?"
Damn it. He walked into the bedroom and knelt beside her. "Hey," he said.
"Hey," she said, the smallest of smiles breaking on her face, as if all the world's weight had lifted from her shoulders at seeing him. "You're up and about. You OK?" Her eyes were barely open—like she was talking in her sleep.
"Ja," he croaked. "I'm—I'm fine." Another wave of sadness washed over him. He knew he wasn't OK. And he knew that he was lying to her.
She moved her hand to his head (now it was clear she was dreaming) and pulled him toward her lips, talking and acting out in her sleep—just like that night at the camp when she'd told him she loved him and never realized it. He never did tell her about that. The kiss now brought an unexpected sense of self-loathing to Miguel—like what he was about to do would be the final nail in the coffin of their tenuous relationship. He quickly pulled away, grabbing her palm behind his neck and laying it on the bed gently. "Sleep. You need it," he said.
"M-hmm," she mumbled, dozing off again.
Miguel left the room and went past the study. He grabbed a page from a nearby notepad and scribbled on it: Sandile's brother wants Tsepho's address to solve your problem. No charge. Money is a donation.
He left.
TWENTY-SEVEN
As if the call from the chief editor of the CCB SPOTLIGHT (Britain's most widely distributed newspaper) to offer him a job as "Official South African Foreign Correspondent" had not been enough, Jonathan Abbey damn near peed in his pants when he heard the tracking alarm on his laptop go off.
He'd begun to think the bloody thing was broken: who doesn't leave their house in four days?!
As the red light flickered on his computer screen—the path of Migue
l Pinto's Toyota being drawn on Google Maps as he moved—Abbey was utterly flabbergasted at what could be done with technology these days. For a moment his gaze was locked, as if watching a high-speed car chase being played back on the news, but this one was live.
He shook his head in disbelief, reaching for the Johnnie Walker bottle which was now empty. Sod it! He felt like a child learning something for the first time. If only they had taught him these things in Journalism School. If only they had taught him that the way to success was to go out and get it!
Alas, he'd had to learn this lesson for himself.
For this first time in his life, Abbey got the feeling that "luck" had very little to do with it. He'd never believed those idiots who always said, You go out and make your own luck! But, observing the fortunate position he was in now, with a job offer from none other than the greatest newspaper in Britain (if not the world, in his opinion) and a potential story happening right underneath his nose, Abbey couldn't help but give credence to the Make your Own Luck blokes.
If bad news was good business, business had never been better!
A chill of self-approval ran down Abbey's back. He was a blooming genius. It was as if he'd locked in to some secret reserve of prescient knowledge, a sixth sense of sorts, or simply what the Americans called "a hunch." Now he knew what they'd been talking about!
This was investigative journalism at its best, fueled by hunches and prepared luck. Blooming brilliant!
The Miguel kid had made it onto the M2 (not the motorway in Britain, the one in Johannesburg—the South Africans stole all the British names: Hyde Park, Leicester Rd, Kensington. Twats!) At two in the morning, he certainly wouldn't be headed to the campus in Braamfontein. What if this Miguel was going to Hillbrow? Abbey didn't pray that he was (he never prayed) but he did clasp his hands together for a moment and wished it very strongly.