by Haden, Ros;
About the author
Michelle Faure grew up in the Eastern Cape. She started her writing career as a journalist for the Port Elizabeth Herald newspaper. She has written many television scripts and is a keen blogger. She has published a teen novel, Surfer Story, and Rescue. She is currently working on a title for Cover2Cover’s Harmony High series.
Michelle says, “The only thing I can remember ever really wanting to do is to write. The only category I have ever wanted to fit into is the ‘I am a writer’ one. Writing has never been a job to me, but more of a compulsion.”
Advice for young writers
Tend to your passion as if it was a plant. Give it time and nurture it so that it can grow. In other words, just write. And write and write and write, any time, anything, anywhere.
5
ONE NIGHT
Wame Molefhe
(Sunday morning)
“Switch it off, please. Too loud!”
Peter wanted to say these words, but his tongue filled his mouth and refused to move. His favourite song was playing: “Her status says she’s playing my song …” Usually the beat made him want to move his arms and legs, but he felt like he was nailed to the ground. His head felt like it was on fire. All he wanted was silence. At last the song stopped playing and Peter felt himself sinking back into that safe place where good dreams are born. But just when he thought he could sleep it started again. “Playing my song, playing my song, her status says, she’s playing my song …” It got louder and louder.
“Shhhhhhhh …” Peter covered his ears with his hands. When he shifted he realised he was lying on a cold floor. He forced his eyes open, but the sunlight shining through his curtains closed them again, and he had to squint to see anything. His surroundings gradually came into focus. He recognised his posters of T.I. and Lil Wayne, achievement certificates, and his final exam timetable that were pasted on the blue walls. He saw his trophies and pictures displayed on his bookshelf. He was in his bedroom, but the song that was playing confused him. There it was again. It was coming from the jeans he was wearing. He slid his hand into the pocket and pulled out his phone. He didn’t remember changing the ring tone.
“Hello?”
“Ke nna. It’s me, Tshepo. Outi, go sleg. Guy, it’s bad.”
“What now?”
“The police were here, now, now. Don’t talk.”
“About what?” Tshepo’s words made him sit up. Tshepo went silent, then he whispered, “…’bout last night.”
“What about last night?”
Silence again.
“Tshepo. What happened last night?”
Peter held his phone up, stared at screen of his phone. It had gone dark, dead. Finally, there was silence. But questions replaced the music.
What happened last night? Think, Peter. Think.
He ran his hand over his face and felt a cut across his forehead. His finger came back specked with dried blood. He lifted himself up to stand in front of the mirror. Eyes streaked with red looked back at him. He stumbled to his bed, walking like he was older than his grandfather. Lying still, Peter struggled to remember.
What happened last night? Think, Peter. Think.
He was trying to string the pieces together when he heard a car door slam shut, then another. The front gate squeaked open. There was a loud knock on the front door. Strange men’s voices, mixed in with his father’s. The walls swallowed the words, but a few slipped through.
“Accident.”
“In hospital.”
His mother’s cry, “Ijooooo. No. E seng, Peter. E seng ngwanake. Not my child.” Peter strained to make sense of what he could hear.
“… to the station.”
Then a loud voice silenced the others.
“Peter!”
Peter heard anger in the way his father called his name. It made the banging in his head get wilder. As he sat with his head resting in his hands, the pieces of Saturday night started to form. He looked around the room, frantic. He wanted to get up and run, and keep running.
~•~
(Saturday morning)
It was early Saturday morning when his parents left home. He helped his mother carry her bags to their car.
“O tlhokomele, Peter. Take care.”
“Ee, Mma.”
“O lotlele. Lock up.”
“Ee, Mma.”
“Remember, no strangers in the house.”
“Yes, Mama …” Peter said again. He smiled at his father who was shaking his head from behind his mother.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” his mother asked.
“Leave the boy and let’s go, please. We’re going to be late for our meeting,” said his father. “Monna, o tlhokomele. Re tla go bona kamoso! Take care of yourself, man. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
When his father called him a man, Peter felt grown up and in charge. Yes, he would take care. He had been left in charge of the home before. It was no big deal, really. His parents knew he was responsible. He’d earned their trust and respect. Right through high school, he remained standing and watched his friends drop like African teams out of the 2010 World Cup. He knew to say no to alcohol and no to drugs. They were trouble. Everyone knew. He wore his ‘STAY DRY, SO YOU DON’T FRY’ T-shirt with pride. There was no way he was going to let anything or anyone lead him astray. At least, that is what he promised himself, until the day he met David.
~•~
David was his best friend, Tshepo’s cousin. He lived in America, in New York. He came home to Botswana on holiday. Tshepo said he should meet him. So Peter went to Tshepo’s house. Five of his schoolmates were there already.
David came up to Peter’s shoulders, but he was more muscular. He wore his jeans low on his bum so they bunched up at his ankles. His sneakers were red and white, and thick-soled. They were the Air Jordans Peter had wanted since he first saw them on TV. David had studs in both ears and wore a Lakers’ cap back to front.
“I need a hit, and you all gotta do it.” David sounded like a teacher giving orders.
No one spoke. Six pairs of eyes followed David’s every move as he pulled out a homemade cigarette from his backpack. It was white and about as long as his middle finger. Neatly rolled and twisted on both ends like a Christmas cracker.
“We’d better go outside, I think,” said Tshepo.
Peter looked at Tshepo. He thought he heard a tremor in Tshepo’s voice. His own legs were shaking and his heart was pounding so hard he was afraid David would hear it. He knew he had to run away before it was too late. David lit up the joint and inhaled. He passed it to Tshepo, who took a small puff and passed it quickly on. Round it went, until it was Peter’s turn.
“Come on, Peter. Try. It won’t kill you. Just try,” Tshepo was saying.
“Don’t be a wimp,” said David.
Peter’s hand trembled as he reached out for the joint.
After hesitating, Peter shook his head. “I can’t do it,” he said, “I can’t, guys. This stuff is poison.” He stood up then. “Gotta go.”
Peter walked out of Tshepo’s yard; his legs felt heavy. Tears blurred his path, but he kept walking. He could hear laughter behind him. He knew his friends were laughing at him. All the way home he heard that word in his ear. Wimp. He thought of returning to Tshepo’s house but he kept walking. He knew he had made the right decision.
He found his mother in the kitchen. “How was your day, Pete-Pete?”
“Mama, ke kopa gore o lese go mpitsa jalo. I wish you’d stop calling me that.” He stormed past his mother on his way to his room. He slammed the door shut and lay on his bed.
He had to study for his Physics exam but struggled to memorise equations, to calculate speed and acceleration. Thoughts of what had happened at Tshepo’s house covered the page he was reading. What would have happened if he’d said yes? Nothing. N
othing bad anyway. He closed his textbook and lay on his back with his head on his hands. He would not give in.
~•~
The test to prove himself had come a few days later.
It was just after sunset on Saturday. Peter was closing the windows and curtains when his phone rang.
“Everything still all right?” It was his mother calling.
“Everything’s fine, Mama.”
“Windows closed and curtains closed, Pete-Pete?”
“Mama … Stop calling me that. Please.”
In the background he heard his father admonishing his mother. “You need to stop treating him like he’s a little boy.”
“We’ll see you tomorrow,” said his father.
An hour or so later, Peter heard the ring-ring-ring of his phone. It was probably his mother again. He walked slowly to it, hoping she would give up before he answered.
“Hello.”
“Peter. Wassup?” It was Tshepo.
“Nothing much.”
“How about coming over?”
“I can’t leave the house. O’lady le thaema ga ba yo. My mother and father are away.” Peter wanted to grab his words back as soon as they were out of his mouth, but it was too late.
“Your folks are away? Damn! Why didn’t you say? We’re on our way. David’s around. We’ll bring Busie and Thato along too, yeah? Have some fun.”
Peter looked at himself in the mirror. It would be different this time. He went to his room and exchanged his shorts for the longest, baggiest pants he owned. He put them on without a belt so they sat below his waist.
“Hey! Open up, dude.” Peter went to the front door and let in his five visitors.
When the introductions were over, David opened the cooler box.
“Beer?” David asked him, and held out a green bottle. Peter could hear that word in his head again. Wimp.
He held out his hand. “Sure, why not?”
He had stolen a taste of his father’s beer once. He had not liked it then; he liked it less now. He took tiny sips of the brown liquid, trying to swirl it round in his mouth to make it taste better. The third sip decided him. He went to the kitchen, closed the door behind him, and poured the beer down the drain.
“I think we should go somewhere … more exciting,” he said, “like, maybe the mall, or some place.”
“My friend’s having a party at her place. We can go there,” said the girl called Busie.
“Even better,” said Peter. He had to get them out of his home. He’d leave them at the party, come home. His parents would find their house exactly as they left it. Everything would be okay.
That is how it should have gone.
“You drive,” said David, holding out the car keys. “You’re the only one not drinking here. I know the kitchen sink drank that beer instead of you.”
“But I don’t have a licence,” said Peter.
“You can drive, can’t you?”
Peter took the car keys from David before he said that word again and made himself comfortable in the driver’s seat.
“I’ll sit in front with you,” Busie said, and got in beside him.
Peter smiled but he was focused on driving the car. He checked the rear- and side-view mirrors and played with the indicators. He pressed the brake pedal down and pushed the seat back. He breathed in and turned the key in the ignition. The car leapt forward and stopped. He shifted the gear into neutral and started the car again. It jerked forward, and then he was driving smoothly. It felt good. He liked Busie with her red T-shirt and black skinny jeans. He wanted her to like him too. He wanted to impress her.
He drove slowly to the intersection. The car stalled, almost stopped, but he pressed the accelerator and they continued moving. Right at the T-junction. Left onto the highway. When he stopped at the robots, Peter said a silent prayer. The car took off smoothly. He stole a look at Busie.
“You drive well.” That voice in his head that called him a wimp was silent. All he heard was music from the party. All he could think of was Busie.
“Park by the side of the road,” ordered David. “Let’s do this first.” David pulled his backpack from the car boot. They all clambered out of the car. Peter watched David light up. The joint went round the circle.
Peter breathed in. He did not know what he was going to do when his turn came. When the joint reached him, he hesitated. Then he stretched out his hand. He held the joint between his thumb and index finger and pressed it to his lips. He drew in long and hard. He did it again.
“Hey! You’re supposed to pass it on after one puff,” Busie giggled as she spoke. He laughed with her. “I like you,” Busie whispered into his ear.
In that moment, Peter knew he could do anything. Anything. He could drive. He could dance. He could fly. When he leaned forward and kissed Busie’s cheek, she didn’t pull away.
As he took another puff, he watched the smoke disappear. Along with it went his plan to abandon his friends. All that mattered was that everyone there knew he was no wimp and of all the boys Busie could have liked, she chose him. Peter didn’t want to go into the party. He only wanted to spend time with Busie.
“Go ahead, Tshepo. We’ll find you in there,” Peter said.
“Cool, man,” Tshepo and Thato went ahead, leaving him behind with Busie.
“So, where do you go to school?” he asked her.
“Mzansi.”
“Oh …” Peter felt disappointment stab him. She was at school far away. “What are you studying?”
“I’m in Grade 11. I’m going to be a vet. You?”
“I want to be a pilot.”
“How cool.”
Peter smiled. Now she was calling him cool. This girl, the prettiest girl with the prettiest brown eyes. He searched his mind, frantic for something smart to say. Busie had to carry him in her heart when she went back to school.
“Do you do this a lot?” he asked her.
“What?”
“Party and stuff?”
Busie looked at him then. “Truth?”
He nodded.
“No.”
“No?” Peter looked at Busie.
“So, what happened today?”
“I guess I thought you’d think I wasn’t cool. I thought … I don’t know what I thought, really … Actually, I want to go home. I’m going back to school tomorrow. I told you.”
Peter took Busie’s hand. He thought of how silly he had been to think that he had to impress her. She was a little like him, really.
“I’m going to look for David,” he said, “I think it’s time we all went home.”
~•~
(Sunday morning)
Peter was getting up from the floor when his father’s voice called him again. “Peter!” He heard quick footsteps coming closer to his bedroom. Peter wished they would continue past his room. His heart sank when he heard the knock on his door.
“Peter.” His mother came into his room. “Peter, the police are here. They say they want to talk to you about an accident that happened last night. What happened?” she whispered.
Peter didn’t look up. He remembered that Tshepo had said he should say nothing until they met.
~•~
Finally, he looked at his mother and she covered her mouth with her hand.
Then she asked, “Peter, ngwanake, my child. Please tell me what happened?” Peter kept his face turned away from his mother, but she peeped at his face and gasped. “Oh my God. Peter, Peter. Go rileng? ”
Peter shrugged and grimaced with pain as she reached out and touched his cut. “Peter. You’re hurt. You need to go to the hospital.”
“I’m okay, Mama. Really, I am.”
“The police are here. They say they’re taking you to the police station. Put on clean clothes and let’s go.” His mother left him
alone in the bedroom.
Peter put on clean clothes. He walked slowly to the bathroom, trying to stretch the time before he had to face his father. He splashed cold water onto his face.
When he went into the living room, his mother was sitting on the sofa next to his father. Opposite them sat two policemen.“Now, tell us what happened. Everything.” His father sounded angry.
Peter said nothing. He just stood there in front of them.
“Please, Peter. Tell us what happened,” said his mother, softly.
“I can’t remember, Mama.”
“Try,” said his mother.
“I’m sorry. I can’t remember.” It was no use. His mind hit a blank.
“Monna wee. This is no joke. Don’t waste our time.”
Peter looked at his father. “It’s the truth. I don’t remember.”
The policeman with thick-framed glasses said, “Well, we gave him a chance. He will have to go to the station. I can see he thinks we are his comrades. He will spit out everything when he gets there.”
Peter followed his parents into their car. He closed his eyes hoping he would squeeze the memory of Saturday from deep inside his brain. All the way to the police station, Peter struggled to remember what happened but only bits and pieces came back to him.
He remembered finding himself in the bush. He remembered opening his eyes and looking for Busie. Beautiful Busie, with the beautiful smile. Where was she now, he wondered.
“Get out and walk behind the police,” his father said when they got to the police station. Peter followed the two policemen into the building. An old man sat at the entrance. He looked at Peter and shook his head.
“Bana ba gompieno. Ga le utlwe. Today’s children …you don’t listen,” the old man said. Peter wanted to ask the policemen if they knew what had happened to Busie. Where was she? How was she? And Thatho? Tshepo? David? What if they were dead? What if he had killed them in a car crash?
“Sit down,” ordered the policeman. “Write down what happened last night. Everything.”
Peter sat down and stared at the A4-sized sheet of paper and pen that was on the table in front of him. He felt like he was writing an exam for which he had not studied. He remembered Tshepo saying he should say nothing. He took the pen and filled out the information at the top of the lined form. Name. Date of Birth. Address.