When the singing man has disappeared into the crowd, he signs the petition then walks down the Strand. In a deserted coffee shop, he opens his journal:
I noticed him when he stepped into the frame. I had knelt down to take a photograph of the demonstration outside Zimbabwe House. He was a big man, very tall, and the unseasonal grey tweed coat he was wearing did not restrain his free, swaying movements. I trained my lens on him for a while; he must certainly be from southern Africa, I thought. There was something in his full face, his easy disposition that was unmistakably home. How unselfconscious he was, to draw such attention to himself, to expose so much of himself to this indifferent town. I photographed him. When I lowered my camera, our eyes met. I smiled. He smiled back and started to make his way towards me. I stood up from my kneeling position.
“Boom chaka boom chaka boom chaka boom! I’m working on this tune, you see, and this is the introduction. Boom chaka boom chaka boom chaka boom! What do you think? Isn’t it great?”
“It’s good,” I say, clicking the cap back onto the lens.
“And, remember, it’s only the introduction! The song proper hasn’t even started yet. And then we go a 1, a 2, a 123... Yela yela ye la la la la. Ay, my brother, now the tune carries us away, away and away! I say, my brother, what do you think of that, man?”
I tell him that I think it’s a great tune, because it is. The man lets out a big roaring laugh of genuine delight, as though I had just given him the best news in the world.
“Ay, thank you my brother, man. Do you really like my music? ”
I nod eagerly. “I’m sure a record company will snap you up.”
“Thank you, man. Thank you.”
“Are you from South Africa?” I ask, struggling to secure the worn clip on my camera case.
The man stands back, surprised. “How do you know?”
“I’m from there myself. I can hear it in your voice.”
“Really! You really mean to say that, after all these years, you can still hear Africa in my voice?”
“Yebo,” I say.
“Ay, come here, my brother. Come here.” He throws his arms around me. “My African brother.” Even though I’m a little worried about dropping my camera – I’ve still not managed to secure the troublesome clip – the embrace feels good. Its sincerity and spontaneity make me laugh. It is as though home has suddenly appeared on the streets of London to give me a hug. The smell of stale alcohol doesn’t bother me that much. Then the man steps back to hold me at arm’s length, with his enormous hands resting on my shoulders. He tilts his head apologetically. “Actually, my brother, I’m from Zimbabwe. Yes, Bulawayo, Place of Slaughter. Do you know the story of Bulawayo?”
I give up on the clip with an annoyed tut, wrap the shoulder straps tightly around the case to keep it shut and return the camera to my open bag where it is kept snug by the pile of ‘Missing’ leaflets, an operation the man watches intently.
“And which place are you from, my brother?” he asks when I have finished.
“Egoli.”
“Ay, man! Place ofGold.Jozi! Egoli! Gauteng!” The man exclaims as if about to burst into song again with the many appellations of the city of gold. “How long are you in London for?”
“Only a few days,” I say. And then I hesitate. The man notices.
“What’s the matter, my friend?”
I decide that I may as well tell him. “I’m looking for my brother,” I say, stooping to retrieve one of the leaflets from my bag. “Perhaps you’ve seen him,” I ask, handing him the leaflet.
The man studies the picture of Issa intently. Then he taps it with his forefinger. “You know – ” He cuts himself short.
“What?” I ask eagerly. “Do you recognise him?”
He starts nodding slowly, knowingly. “I do,” he says, smiling. “Yes, I do.”
I can hardly believe the good fortune of this chance encounter. “Where? When?” I ask, unable to contain my optimism.
The man looks around suspiciously then pulls me once again towards him. He whispers in my ear, conspiratorially. “I saw him just the other day,” he confides, his warm breath brushing my ear.
I step back slightly to see his face, to express my delight.
“Yes. In Buck House,” he continues. “I usually have dinner there with Elizabeth once a month or so. We go back a long way, you know, old Liz and I.”
“Excuse me?” I blink, my heart still racing in my chest.
He pushes a dirty finger to his pouted lips. “Sshh! I don’t want people to know about it. It’s a discreet arrangement. You have to keep your voice down, okay?”
“Yes, okay,” I agree half-heartedly, the anticipation, the hope, starting to drain anti-clockwise from my soul.
“Good,” the man continues. “You have to be careful in this town... Now, when I was having dinner in the palace the other day, he was there.” He studies the picture again. “Yes, it was him. I remember he was chatting to Philip – I’m not so keen on him, I must admit – about the races. And when we played cards together after dinner, he beat us all hands down.” He starts to laugh and is soon shaking with hilarity. “That upset old Liz. Phil and I usually let her win, you see. Ooh, you should have seen her face.”
“Really,” I said to the man, feigning amusement.
But his laughter had already stopped, his face had fallen and his mind had moved on to other things. “I’m looking for my son too. He’s missing you know.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I respond, zipping up my bag.
“But I know where he is, mind you. Yes, he’s in jail. In Gauteng, as it happens.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I hear myself echo.
Again, he pulls me towards him. “Yes, he killed a man. A motor car accident.” Then he waves his Issa-clutching hand dismissively. I start to plot my escape, make a dramatic gesture of swinging my bag onto my back, even glance at my watch, but there is a futility in that gesture, that dismissive wave, which I recognise instantly: it says yes, it’s awful, thank you for your concern, but I’m sorry I can’t tell you more, I’m exhausted by it because it’s always on my mind and I don’t know what to do, but I’ve been through it all too many times to go over again, here, now. I’m sorry I raised it. Sometimes it slips out. Forget I said anything. And then you put on a happy face and try to change the topic. To those who know it, that gesture spells defeat. The man is still being as generous and unselfconscious as he was when I spied him through the lens of my camera. Despite his insistence on hushed tones, he shared his joy and sorrow boisterously and in equal measure, with this indifferent town.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
“Twenty-seven years,” he answers in five flat, monotonous syllables. “Twen / ty / se / ven / years.”
“That’s a long time,” I exclaim. “Would you like to go back home to Zimbabwe?”
He shakes his head. “Home? Zimbabwe? No. Zimbabwe is no longer home.” Then he gives me a warning look. “And not because of Mugabe, mind you!” I follow the man’s forefinger as it waves, backwards and forwards in the air, like a crazy metronome. No, not because of Mugabe.”
“Why are you here, then?”
“Because of Smith! Remember him? You remember him?”
“I remember him a little,” I say.
“Only a little! How can you only remember a little about a man like Smith?”
“I was very young,” I say defensively.
“Rubbish. I’m sure you can tell me more about Hitler and you weren’t even born then.”
I stutter.
“Well, let me tell you. I think Mugabe’s right! I think he’s great. You know why?”
I shake my head.
“I was this old,” he drops his hand down to his thigh with his gathered fingers, like a closed tulip, turned upwards, “when, one day, I was shepherding my grandfather’s sheep. My grandfather had many, many sheep. So one day, I was shepherding the sheep when two white men came. They came up to me a
nd said, ‘Hey, whose sheep are these?’ I said they belonged to my grandfather. You know what they did? They cut off their heads, like this.” He chops his arms around my neck, as if in a game of oranges and lemons. “Yes, like this,” the man continues. “Chop chop chop. All my grandfather’s sheep. I saw it. With my own eyes. And I was this high from the ground, man. This high from the fucking ground. How can you only remember a little of Smith when I remember so fucking much?” Then the singing man starts to cry.
“Yes, I saw those things with my own eyes. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m here and not there. That’s why I’m fucking here!” He wipes his eyes with Issa’s face as though it were a handkerchief. The leaflet leaves ink stains across the man’s eyes where he has wiped away his tears – and across his sweaty brow. “That’s why I’m fucking here.” And then he steps around me and starts staggering away with Issa’s smudged image staring helplessly back at me from the man’s clutched hand – like Winnie the Pooh, I think – like Winnie the Pooh dangling helplessly from the hand of Christopher Robin.
And now, Kagiso is alone, high above the city. He didn’t see it when he flew in; he had an aisle seat, turned away from the little window and tried to force himself back to sleep. But now he has time to survey it properly. It is the last circumference of the day. He is cocooned inside his own thoughts. Barely registers the other tourists in the glass pod.
It is vast. That is his first thought as the pod rises slowly to reveal the sprawl beyond the dense cacophony of architectural styles that jostle into a façade on the riverbank. Westminster Abbey seems at first to form part of the Houses of Parliament – the kingdom of God indistinguishable from the kingdom of man. He is surprised by the location of things. So that is where that is in relation to that. And from up here that doesn’t seem so far away from that, when it took ages to walk it the other day.
But eventually, he concludes, all cities seem the same. From this height, at such ambiguous times of day, there is very little to distinguish one from another. He recalls some photographs Ma Vasinthe brought back of Paris, taken from high above the city at sunset; there is very little difference. The bends in the river surprise him. In his mind, it was straight.
The sun winks its last and then slips behind the horizon. A cage of metal rods comes silently into view – the structure of the thing, elegant from afar, intrusive at close proximity. He turns to the east, where night is looming. The lights have come on and now the earth is brighter than the sky. He makes a twilight wish, as they did when they were children playing cricket in the street, rushing to hug a lamppost as it flickered into life. ‘Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs / Got to keep the loonies on the path.’
During his first year at UCT, he lived facing the dawn of night. He didn’t like to miss it, always felt agitated when he did. He would watch its approach from his window at Jan Smuts House. From this spot, he felt in tune. He knew when the sun had sunk behind the mountain at his back; its rays would disappear from the peaks ahead. And then, like everywhere in Africa, night came quickly. It would come flooding over the blue mountains in the east, like a tide, flicking light switches in its path. He could see it rushing towards him, unstoppable. But then there would be a lull, a slight pause, a deceptive respite, as daylight hung on and darkness crept its way, out of sight, up the foot of the mountain beneath him, like a silent enemy. It was as though suddenly, everything had stopped, as though nightfall had changed its course. It was a disconcerting moment, like walking into the sea at night. It made him shiver.
In the end, the advance of night was always complete. He would throw open the windows in anticipation of azaan, a comforting sound that reminded him of home. From up there he could only hear it faintly, if at all, from the far distance below as he searched the expansive flats for Issa’s college in the bush. If he did hear the faint call of the muezzins declaring God’s greatness to a starry city, he would know that the sun had sunk over the mountain behind and into the ocean beyond: Allah-u-akbar, Allah-u-akbar...
Stepping out of the pod, he cannot decide which way to turn. It is easier to run down the mountainside than further up it, remember? The futility of choice leaves him empty inside. Which is the path of least resistance? What would water do? Stagnate? What are the chances that he’d choose the direction that will lead him through this sprawling city to the road and the house and the room in which he’d find Issa? What are the chances of this night’s twilight wish coming true?
He has been sitting on a step by the river, watching the murky water rise, wishing for it to engulf him, suddenly, and carry him away, the water already lapping at his feet. It rises quickly up to his knees and the step he is sitting on. He lifts his backpack from the step and hooks it onto the railing above his head. The black water rises to his chest, his shoulders and then, splash splash, quickly up his nose and above his head. He feels himself becoming buoyant as the river tries to lift him from the step. And then, with a determined tug, she takes him and pulls him into her. He offers no resistance, lets the river roll him over, caress him gently and take him down to sleep. He closes his eyes and rests his head on the dark black tide.
But then, not too late, just in time, he wakes. No. He rotates himself, like Vitruvian Man in the circle, upright, arms stretched out at his sides. Then he raises his hands above his head and lurches up towards the surface. When the river grapples, trying to wrap itself around his feet, he starts to kick, raising his hands one more time above his head to lurch.
His head breaks through into the warm night above the surface; inhale.
He has not been taken far, a few strong strokes and he is back on his step, walking up out of the black river.
He slumps down against the railing, watches the water drain from his clothes onto the flagstones of the walkway beside the river. He pulls off his socks; he has lost his shoes in his struggle against the river.
Get up, he instructs himself when he is nearly dry, and walk away from this place. He rises, hitches his bag onto his back, and makes his way towards the bridge.
On the empty train, he sits, barefooted and ashamed, scanning the advertisements in the carriage – a row of bags in a police lineup under the heading: ‘Guilty until proven innocent’ – counting the stations to his destination again and again on the route map above the window – Leicester Square / Covent Garden / Holborn / Russell Square / King’s Cross St. Pancras / Caledonian Road / Holloway Road / Arsenal / Finsbury Park – eight stops from central to north London on the Piccadilly Line, northbound, under the sanctuary, to Finsbury Park, N4
Russell Square
KATINKA HAS ONLY MET HER ONCE before, in 1995, when Vasinthe was part of a small group of distinguished female scientists invited to a special dinner, hosted in their honour by the President, at the Groote Schuur Estate. Issa accompanied his mother on the occasion and invited Katinka to join them for lunch at Hout Bay the following day. On the tube, Katinka recalls the meeting:
“So, how was dinner?” she asked excitedly, as they sat down to fresh fish caught that morning in the surrounding seas.
Issa nodded, stifling a smile. It was fine.
“Is that it?” She looked at Kagiso and Vasinthe in disbelief. “Can you believe this guy? He goes to dinner, at Groote Schuur, with the President, and all he can say is, ‘It was fine.’ Come on,” she encouraged, pushing his shoulder. “Show some enthusiasm. Do you know how many people would kill for such an opportunity? It’s your duty to share the experience. I want to know all about it. Everything! What did you eat? What did you...
Kagiso stretched his eyes and tensed his lips at her, but it was too late.
She finished off with a whimper, “... wear?”
The subject had been rekindled.
“Go on,” Vasinthe prodded. “Tell her what you wore,” her tone as sour as the lemon she was squeezing onto her fish.
Issa sat up in his seat, stretched his arms to the sky and pushed out his chest. Katinka noticed the distinctive loopy signature. “
You wore that!” she exclaimed.
Issa reclined, smiling broadly. He threw a chip into his mouth and chewed it with big circular movements, as though it were a large piece of gum.
“Can you believe it?” Vasinthe protested. “And he hasn’t taken it off since.”
Katinka let out a laugh of disbelieving admiration, and then, in deference to Vasinthe, cut it. “Issa,” she said with a tone attempting closure, “You’ve the devil in you.” She unfolded her cutlery as noisily as possible from the napkin and smiled a half-smile at Kagiso from the corner of her eyes. Sorry. That wasn’t too bad was it? Then waited for him to redirect the conversation.
Kagiso chased his cue, chewing quickly, with one eye on Vasinthe. It seemed as though he would either swallow the half-chewed mouthful or spit it out on the floor. Wow! Look at that yacht, he would say.
He’d missed his moment. “Absolutely!” Vasinthe agreed, turning to Katinka. “I had brought him a suit which I had had specially tailored in Johannesburg. Do you know he simply refused to wear it? Wouldn’t even look at it.”
I couldn’t have asked him to sign my suit.
Vasinthe banged her upturned fork on the table. The impact sent a tremor through the table, which sent ripples through the ripples through the surface of their drinks and startled the table next to them. She glanced self-consciously around the restaurant, softened her stance and leaned forward to chastise Issa through clenched teeth. “I don’t understand why you needed to get an autograph in the first place, as if having dinner with the man wasn’t enough.”
I wasn’t the only one who asked.
“No, but you were the only one who stuck your chest in his face.”
Katinka tried to stifle another laugh with a lip-licking smile.
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