by Raven, R. D.
"How far is this Hillbrow from the campus?" asked Jaz.
"Five minutes by car."
"We'll pick you up."
"Bugger!" Jonathan Abbey shook the laptop screen on the passenger seat, cursing at how backwards the South African infrastructure was. The red circle on the map had disappeared for five minutes, then reappeared, intermittently on and off. He was close now. He needed precise locations!
Relief coursed through him when he saw it again. Relief that was short-lived, because soon after, he heard a siren, and saw blue and orange lights lighting up the seats in his car. "What the—?"
It seemed that some
bobbies were following him! Confused and irritated, he pulled over.
A large woman approached his window with a flashlight and shone it on his lap and then at his laptop. He rolled down the window.
"Good evening, sir. May I see your ID, please?"
"Ma'am, I'm in a bit of a hurry. Would you tell me what this is about?"
"Your ID, sir!"
"I don't have an ID. I'm a British citizen."
"Then your passport, please."
Blooming South Africans! Abbey felt in his pocket, but he didn't have his passport. He stretched to open up the glove compartment—
"Sir, stop! What are you doing?"
"I'm getting—"
"Sir, step out of the car." Is she blooming stupid?! Does she think I'm carrying a flipping gun?!
"Look, ma'am, I'm actually in a hurry—"
"I know you are in a hurry. You were doing eighty-five in a sixty zone! Now, get out of your car before I have you arrested!"
"I am a British citizen. You have no right—"
"You are not in Britain, sir. You are in South Africa. You are welcome to return, but so long as you are here, you are expected to follow the speed limit!"
Abbey looked at his laptop one more time as he undid his seatbelt. There was the red dot—right there. Clarendon Court. Claim Street. Stopped. Two minutes away!
"Sir"—the woman sniffed the air—"have you been drinking?"
Bugger!
Miguel's hand trembled when the second of the two goons came back down (after being gone for what must've easily been twenty or thirty minutes), his AK waving as if it was a vuvuzela at a soccer match. The man flung the rifle above his shoulder as he approached. Only in South Africa, thought Miguel. It was like this area had achieved diplomatic immunity to anything Nigerian (or anything that sold drugs and carried an AK). The man stuck out his free hand when he got to Miguel. By this time, Miguel was wondering how he was even managing to keep his own body up—his legs were so weak with fear.
There was a note in the man's outstretched hand. Miguel grabbed it, looking at Bad-Breath for just a moment. Bad-Breath simply stared vacantly, as if Miguel were just a ghost—some foreign entity that this animal could put a bullet through and not even realize he'd killed someone.
He read the note:
Tsepho is not under God's care anymore.
308A, St. Michael's Court
92 Claim Street
You have one night. God's vengeance was already on its way.
God thanks you for your donation.
So there it was. Tsepho was still alive, as if the gods of Fate had timed it just so Miguel could have it land in his fortuitous hands. Because surely this was a turn of good fortune. Wasn't it? Miguel could simply walk in, aim his gun, and blow the guy's brains out. It would've been done tonight by Igbo's goons anyway, it seemed. Maybe Miguel would walk out unscathed. Maybe he'd be shot by some lunatic as he walked into Tsepho's building. Maybe he would be shot after. Maybe he'd send the tip over to the cops. Maybe Tsepho wouldn't be there.
But, just like that, in his hands, lay what he'd come for.
He hesitated, almost losing grip of the unrelenting truth of it all: 308A, St. Michael's Court, 92 Claim Street. You have one night. God's vengeance was already on its way.
He hefted the paper, the two Nigerians eying him curiously, clearly wondering what the hell he was still doing there—business was over, the transaction had been done. The expected thing to do now … would be to leave.
He cleared his throat, and turned to his car.
Thandie was in the back seat. She'd told them they were to keep quiet once they got onto Claim Street. If there was one thing she remembered it was that these guys didn't like noise. They totally freaked out if someone so much as burped near them.
They'd driven past some sort of road block on their way there. Some guy that looked curiously like that slimeball reporter had been standing waving his hands crazily at some police woman.
Here they were now: Hillbrow. So close to the university in fact—like two opposite worlds, heaven and hell, within walking distance of each other.
"There it is," said Thandie, pointing at a building with so many garbage bags outside that Jaz wondered if they ever got picked up.
Abbey could not believe the setback. That sodding idiot of a cop had held him up for thirty minutes! Everything could have happened and finished by now. That stupid bobby and her "obey the speed limit" nonsense had put him very definitely in the Wrong Place at the Wrong Time!
And now, the Right Price—that was a new one he'd need to add to his mantra (and to his arsenal).
But ill-fate piled on ill-fate with another setback just as he'd arrived in Hillbrow: a black SUV, dragging its feet down Claim Street, blocking his view. There was just no way around it. There was so much garbage around and so many cars in the street that the road was blocked from either side.
Blimey!
He honked his horn, then flashed his lights, then honked the horn again. They needed to get the fuck out of the way! "Move!" he screamed. "Move you blooming twits!" He raised his arms in the air and then punched his roof.
Why were they going so slow?
Honk! Honk! Honk!
"Moooove!"
As snail-vehicle dawdled down the glutted road, Abbey felt the opportunity slipping from him just as that red-head (what had her name been?!) had slipped out of his life all those years back.
He craned his head left and right and flashed his lights and then opened his window.
"Move!"
Just as he said it, he saw figures, in the distance.
Was that a … gun?
He shot his head back inside, clutched the steering wheel with both hands, and waited.
Silently.
Miguel had just put his key in the ignition when he'd heard the sudden honking. The two Nigerians started getting antsy, shouting words at each other and then at the perpetrator. Who the fuck hooted in the middle of Claim Street at this time of night—someone with a death wish? Now was a good time to leave. Miguel saw the AK ease its way off the guy's shoulder, his other hand rising to support it. Bad-Breath had taken his glock out now and was holding it by his side. Miguel needed to get the hell out of there.
His eyes on the men, he slid his left hand over to the glove compartment, got the gat, and put it on his lap—just in case. Then he looked behind him before reversing.
No, it couldn't be.
What the—?
Dad? Jaz!
Damn it!
Panic threw its fists down Miguel's gullet and ripped his heart and voice out so he couldn't speak. He looked at the Nigerians: the AK was now aimed—at something behind him.
Jaz was the first to see the rifle taking aim. Senhor Pinto was looking in the rear-view mirror at the total lunatic that was going ballistic behind them. For a moment the guy had stopped. But now he was at it again.
She froze.
And then she saw Miguel's car.
Oh ... God ... no.
A wash of cold water iced her emotions and her ability to react, not a single thought running through her mind.
AK-guy cocked the gun. Miguel threw his own gun to the floorboard and fired his body out the car!
"Wait!"
The AK was suddenly aimed at Miguel's face! For a nanosecond Miguel even thought the man ha
d fired and that time had been slowed and that he had just died but not yet felt the pain. Bad-Breath looked at him with a hate Miguel could not name—but the AK hadn't fired. That fucking maniac was still hooting. Who the fuck was this idiot?
Almost instantly, a scream: "It's OK. It's OK!"
Jaz?!
She was out the car now. What the hell is she doing outside the car?!
The AK swung to her.
"It's OK!" shouted Miguel desperately. "She's with me. It's OK!"
Now the AK back to him.
Miguel eased up, and spoke slowly, gesturing with his hands to calm down "It's O … K. We're leaving."
AK-guy was antsy, agitated, swinging nervously between Miguel and Jaz, Miguel and Jaz, Miguel and Jaz, Miguel and Jaz. There was a hectic frenziness in the man's eyes. That same frenziness that … Tsepho had had.
Tik!
Miguel, with hands up defensively: "We're leaving. We're going. It's all good. It's all good. She's with me. It's all good, my man. Jaz, get in the car." Miguel was easing himself into his car, Jaz also now moving back. "It's OK, my man. It's OK."
God Almighty he'd never forgive himself if something happened to her tonight.
Never.
Please, God, or … whoever or whatever … please, just don't let anything happen to her. I will do anything.
"Get out of the fucking way!" Was that a British accent? The AK pointed at the car behind his dad's. And wait a minute. I know that voice—that sickly, disgusting, high-pitched, rasping voice that could only belong to—
"The noisemaker is not with us," said Miguel—a tone of finality in his voice. He knew who the man was now, and he had no sympathy for him. Not an iota of it. He could've done something, said something, and Sandile might've still been alive. And what exactly was he doing here, and at this time—just "passing through the neighborhood"?
"We're leaving. The man in the back is not with us—not at all. He is on his own," he said again, trying his best to make his voice travel so he'd be heard. And then Miguel saw it: the faintest of nods and a close of the eyes from Bad-Breath, as if in silent understanding of the unmistakable clarity of Miguel's statement.
Now was their chance!
"Go Jaz, Go!"
As he told her that, Bad-Breath turned to AK-guy and nodded again.
The glock aimed.
Miguel's door was still open when he slammed on the gas. Jaz was half in his dad's SUV, her leg dangling.
Gunshots.
Screeching tires, and a pause for a moment as his car hung while the smell of burned rubber went into his nose. Move for fuck's sake!
The tires finally gripped the ground and Miguel's back rammed against his seat.
Gunshots again.
Ratatatatatatatatatatatat.
Exploding light bulbs of gunfire from the muzzles of the two guns all aimed at— What?
His perception increased to where he could now see it all at once: the stop sign up ahead (which he would skip), his dad's SUV behind him (which was moving, and which had—he looked carefully—no bullets in it!), the flashing blaze of bullets being fired from the AK and glock into the splattering window … of that guy behind them—that same guy who'd stood and watched, taking photos, while bullets had been pumped into his best friend's heart.
His brother's heart.
Welcome to Sunny South Africa you fucking twat!
Miguel fishtailed around the stop sign, his car screeching like Edward Cullen's in that Twilight movie when he rescued Bella from those wannabe rapists.
But Miguel had rescued no one today. He'd done the exact opposite.
His father was right behind him. Were they really safe? He searched his rear-view mirror again. Jaz was there, and she looked—he checked one more time, closely—fine. Yes, she was fine. Not smiling, but alive. And his father. And … Thandie? My God, she was also here? They were fine.
Yes. Thank God.
They were fine.
He grabbed the note with Tsepho's address on it, crumpled it, then looked at it one more time in his hand.
He threw it out the window.
When they got home, tears poured down Miguel's face. His father hugged him, and Miguel cried and cried and cried. He cried for Sandile, and he cried for what he had nearly done to all of them.
But Jaz stayed away from him, her skin still pale with shock, eyes puffy and red, her arms crossed, resting against the SUV. Thandie was next to her, angry as the devil. Neither said anything. Miguel gave his dad the gun. "The important thing is that we are all safe," his father said. It never ceased to amaze Miguel: the sheer quantity of forgiveness available to a parent for his child.
His father went inside.
"You almost got us killed," said Jaz. Blunt, direct.
It was the truth. It had the sting of it. Because of his own actions tonight, he could've lost her forever. And then, what would there have been to live for?
He had no words.
Jaz: "We'll leave in the morning."
He nodded.
What else was there to say?
TWENTY-EIGHT
The next day, Jaz called Elize. She didn't come to the phone because her parents said she was still too shocked to speak. Jaz took some of the money she had saved for the long vacation she'd planned for after the semester (which she'd decided she would not take) and rented a car. She was still afraid to drive on the wrong side of the road so she asked Thandie to drive.
They visited two people: Nita and Elize.
Nita was moving about now and recovering fast. Although, as if it were even possible with such a small frame, she had lost some weight. The doctors said it was normal, and what little weight she needed to pick up would come back when she got off the painkillers.
As for Elize, whom they visited straight after, her skin was ashen, and she carried thick, black bags under her swollen eyes. Jaz and Thandie spent the next few days with her at home, doing nothing but taking turns sitting in her room, talking to her, helping her mom with dinner or doing chores that Elize would've normally done. In the end, it was Elize's father who had been the most grateful. Jaz came to discover that Elize was the daughter he'd always wanted; someone he'd do anything and everything for. And only after Jaz and Thandie had spent a while there did Elize start to come out of the funk she'd been in. After two weeks, Elize had stopped crying as much and was able to go out with them to Cresta Shopping Center for ice cream. The relief on her father's eyes was clear—as if his daughter had come back from the dead.
Although he didn't directly say it, Jaz knew it was why he'd held a braai the next Saturday and insisted on Jaz and Thandie being there. He said that, if either of them didn't come, the braai would be off. Probably the whole neighborhood was there—at least it looked like it. Had it been a statement? Was he telling the neighborhood something by holding it? Jaz never found out.
Shortly after, even that fucking Nazi-looking AWB flag from seven blocks down had disappeared. Jaz wondered if Mr. Van Zyl hadn't personally had a hand in making that happen. But she also never asked about that.
As the weeks progressed, Thandie and Elize started hanging out more and more together by themselves, Jaz choosing to stay at the dorm and do some reading or studying. In the end, it had simply made more sense because what was the point in investing emotional coins in a relationship that was destined to end?
And Jaz was going to leave, the month she would depart stampeding toward her with every day that passed.
Miguel dropped out of the IHRE program almost immediately after the incident in Hillbrow. A few weeks later, Jaz had Thandie pop by his house and find out how he was doing, but it turned out he'd relocated to Mozambique to permanently run that branch of his father's business. Why had he chosen to do that?
She'd seen him from a distance at Sandile's funeral (which must've been attended by half the city of Soweto). But Jaz never spoke to him; it was all just too painful. And it seemed he was also avoiding her anyway. If she had known that he would be leaving the
country, however, she would've said goodbye or … said something. Ironic, wasn't it, Miguel leaving and Jaz staying? It occurred to her, later, that she didn't even have an email address for him. It would be a good reason to get into that stuff—email, that is. In the end, however, what good would it have done for her to have a way of contacting him from so far away?
The funeral had been difficult for Jaz. As much as Thandie had explained that, in their culture, the person would be sent off with everything they needed so they could come back as an ancestor, Jaz had considered this to be only a sweet—albeit wishful—thought. Out of respect for the cultural practice, she said nothing, but believed little of it.
Jaz sank herself into her schoolwork. Almost all of the foreign students had returned to their home countries only days after the riots, afraid that there was going to be a "civil war" in South Africa. Ironically, Stefan was one of the few who stayed—he and that English guy with the matted hair (who turned out to be a pretty decent guy) as well as that Scandinavian girl that Jaz just never got around to talking to.
Jaz was proud of the decision she'd made—to stay in the program. She was proud that she'd stood up to her parents and that something that was purely her call had turned out OK.
Another thing she had taken to doing was going through Sandile's unpublished articles on his laptop. Jaz had spoken to his father about all the writing he'd done (and not published) and had the idea of putting it all together in a book to hand out to Sandile's friends and family. She found that many of the articles were like diary entries instead of articles, and Jaz began to understand why he hadn't wanted to publish them—they were just too personal. The more she read, the more she missed his company, and the more the tears ran down her face. But they were cathartic tears, because Sandile's writings spoke mostly of hope and a future. She did this night after night, just trying to understand the things that had gone on in his mind. She didn't want to admit it, but part of her interest was probably also so she could understand Miguel better.
Sandile spoke a tremendous amount of Miguel in his writings.