Unpresidented

by Paige Nick

  ‘Well, he looks like your secretary, always taking your notes that you give him,’ Refilwe says.

  ‘Why don’t you stay, sthandwa sam’, we’re going to make a lamb stew later,’ Bonang offers. ‘Your favourite.’

  ‘I can’t, I told you, I have to get to the bank.’

  ‘You could always take an Uber,’ Refilwe suggests.

  ‘Now why must I do that? I have two perfectly good wives left, and now I’m supposed to pay for an Uber?’ Muza shifts from foot to foot and hums, thinking that if he stands there long enough, one of them will relent. But they both return to their sewing and cell phone tapping. Eventually he stomps out the door. He doesn’t want to ask that arrogant writer for anything, but he’s running out of time, and an Uber costs money.

  The mongrel growls as Muza lopes past the fire pool. He bends to pat it, but it snaps at him, narrowly missing his hand. White monopoly capital dog, Muza thinks.

  ‘Comrade, are you in here?’ When Muza’s eyes adjust to the darkness in the rondavel, he discovers Stone lying on the floor curled in a ball. He has a blooming shiner, and he’s groaning as he nurses the baby finger on his left hand. There’s a muscled and tattooed shaven-headed man in jeans and sneakers standing over him.

  Another man in a crisp white shirt open at the neck and grey suit pants is perched on the edge of the writer’s desk, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the scene with a look of calm distaste. He has an impressive beard, flecked with grey.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had guests, comrade. It’s not urgent, I’ll come back later,’ Muza says, turning to go.

  ‘Wait,’ the bearded man points at him. ‘I know you.’ His accent is Malawian.

  Muza freezes, trying to decide whether to run or remain.

  ‘Am I dreaming? Somebody pinch me. Is it really you? This is like Channukah and Simchat Torah all rolled into one. Reebok, do you have any idea who this man is?’ says the bearded Malawian, addressing his colleague. ‘This is probably the most famous man you’ll ever meet.’

  Muza isn’t sure if the man is being serious or sarcastic. He’s not used to getting a warm reception these days. For a split second he wonders if he can outrun them both. It’s unlikely.

  ‘It’s a great honour to meet you, Mr President, I am a huge fan.’ The Malawian shakes his hand enthusiastically. ‘Where are my manners? Forgive me, my name is Elijah.’

  ‘Good to meet you, Elijah,’ Muza says warily.

  ‘I never dreamed you’d actually be here, or that I’d get to meet you in the flesh. It’s bechert.’

  ‘Be-what?’

  ‘It means that it’s meant-to-be, that I’m here and you’re here and we get to meet each other. What a nachas.’

  ‘Mmmm, I like nachos.’

  ‘Reebok, come shake this man’s hand, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.’

  Reebok steps over the groaning writer and shakes Muza’s hand.

  ‘I swear on Hashem, if I were here legally, I would have voted for you every time. Who did you vote for, Reebok?’

  Reebok shrugs.

  ‘What? You had the opportunity to vote for one of the greatest living presidents in the history of this country, maybe even the world, and you didn’t do it? What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Muza says. ‘He may still get another opportunity, I’m going to run for future Supreme Leader again very soon.’

  ‘Spectacular news. Reebok, is that not the best news of the day?’

  Reebok shrugs again.

  ‘I should get your autograph. Or, even better, Mr President, would you do me the great honour of being in a photograph with me? Reebok could take it for us.’

  ‘Please, call me Muza, all my friends do,’ Muza says, pulling in his stomach and hoicking up his tracksuit pants. ‘You’ll have to forgive me though, I’m not dressed, I wasn’t expecting company. Comrade on the floor, you must remember this for the memories, hey. This good man is so excited to have a photograph with me.’

  ‘Don’t worry about your outfit, there are a million filters on my camera for just such a challenge. I will ensure you look like a king, you have my word. Here, Reebok,’ Elijah says, thrusting his phone into his sidekick’s hand. Then he stands beside Muza, puts an arm around his shoulders, and smiles proudly for the camera.

  ‘This will be my new Facebook profile picture. My friends are going to go meshuganah when they see it. Everyone knows you were framed, hey. It was a massive set-up for sure. The oldest con in the book, they just needed a scapegoat. Turn the camera on its side now, Reebok, get a few the other way. Plus, you can’t trust the media these days – they blow everything out of proportion. But I’m so glad to see you’re home and getting back on your feet. Mazel tov!’

  ‘How do you know the writer?’ Muza asks.

  ‘He’s a writer?’ Reebok speaks for the first time.

  Muza nods.

  ‘No way, ntwana! I’m a writer too,’ Reebok says, kneeling down beside Stone. ‘Maybe, if it’s not too much of an imposition, you could take a look at my manuscript? I’ll email it to you. It’s a memoir, one man’s journey through poverty and gangsterism. Maybe you could even put me in touch with your publisher? Sorry about earlier, hey, business is business, no hard feelings, achuz. It was just a light tap, anyway. I can’t believe how hard you went down. And it was crazy when you landed on your finger funny like that. But count yourself lucky, achuz – I was probably going to break it anyway, so you saved yourself that inconvenience. This is much better for you, I’m sure it’s just a gentle sprain.’

  Stone makes a strange sound: part-snort, part-whimper.

  ‘So my writer is your friend?’ Muza asks Elijah.

  ‘Sort of, he’s one of my clients,’ Elijah says.

  ‘Ah. What line of work are you in?’

  ‘I’m an entrepreneur,’ Elijah says.

  Muza pricks up his ears. ‘And what kind of things do you entrepreneur, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Technically, I’m a salesman, and your friend here is one of my customers.’

  ‘He’s not my friend, he’s my writer,’ Muza says.

  ‘Well, either way, we find ourselves in an unfortunate situation in that your writer owes me fifteen thousand rand. So we were just having a friendly conversation to discuss the terms of his repayment.’

  ‘I see. Well I don’t want to disturb your business meeting, I just came to ask him for a lift. I need to go to the bank on an urgent matter.’

  ‘I have a car,’ Elijah says. ‘I’d be honoured to drive you anywhere you need to go.’

  ‘You would?’

  ‘Absolutely, and of course. This is my last meeting for the day, anyway. And I somehow don’t think your writer is in any shape to be driving. My BMW is parked outside,’ Elijah says, dangling his car keys from the tips of his fingers. ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘I’ll send you my manuscript, okay? I can’t wait to hear what you think. And I’ll be in contact about the other thing too,’ Reebok says to Stone as they leave.

  ‘What other thing?’ Matt murmurs.

  ‘Actually, it’s nine things if you don’t pay what you owe, achuz,’ Reebok says, wriggling his fingers.

  THE WRITER

  My tongue tastes like meatloaf that’s been left out of the fridge two days too long, I think I may have pissed my pants, and I might be dead. Which would make sense: everything about this place feels like hell.

  Although, if I were dead, surely I wouldn’t feel anything, and I definitely feel something right now. A lot of somethings all at once, in fact. My eye feels like a squash ball at the end of a game, and I think my spleen, kidney, and liver are broken, plus the pinkie on my left hand is the size of my thumb and hurts like a motherfucker.

  Why do all drug dealers have to be built like brick shithouses? And he says he only tapped me. Imagine if he’d used full force? In my next life, I want a drug dealer who can’t snap a twig. Oh and please, for the love of Christ, one who isn’t a wannabe
writer.

  Writers aren’t good at getting hit. Not even just once, gently. We’re soft. It’s from years of being holed up behind a computer. Our hands are feeble from too much typing and coffee-stirring, our upper arms are weak, our backs are screwed from sitting too much, and we’re flabby around the middle from all the booze, drugs, and good times. The only muscle I’ve spent the last fifteen years training is my brain, and that’s only useful in a fight up until the point I can no longer convince the guy standing across from me not to hit me. After that I’m fucked, as evidenced by my current situation.

  I don’t even know how I ended up owing some Hassidic Malawian lunatic fifteen grand. Why can’t I have a normal drug dealer like everyone else? Sure, there’ve been a bunch of benders over the last few months. And maybe I’ve been a bit more off the rails than usual. There were those big nights at Michelle’s place when she was away, and then some party in Hillbrow, and the whole thing with the dog and the couch on fire. And then I woke up two days later on the afternoon of my deadline without any words down and the biggest hangover of my life. Then there were all the arguments with Michelle, and a few more benders, and finally the cancer article came out, and the media eviscerated me, and Michelle kicked me out. But is it really possible that I racked up fifteen grand’s worth of drug debt in the process?

  I examine my pinkie. Who sprains their finger by falling on it funny? It’s agonising; the thought of having him break the other nine too makes my scrotum seize. I’d never survive it. So now what? I could borrow money to pay Elijah back, but from who? Michelle is out of the question. A bank loan doesn’t seem likely, since I only have fifteen hundred in my account and zero collateral. I could go to my parents again. Although last time was the absolutely last fucking time, to quote my dad. Maybe if I told Dumi what’s happening and that my typing fingers are in severe danger, he might consider helping a brother out. But if I call him, he’ll definitely ask how the book’s coming. Ha, what book?

  So I need money like yesterday, otherwise I’m dead. But the only way to get money is to write this book. But that will take twenty-one days.

  Or, if I’m lucky, maybe I’m dead already as I first suspected, and this is hell. Ironic that hell should resemble real life right now. Is that irony or karma?

  THE EX-PRESIDENT

  ‘How’d it go, bubbe?’ Elijah asks, as Muza lowers himself gently back into the BMW, trying not to let his right buttock make firm contact with the seat.

  ‘Fantastic. They were so happy to see me in that bank. Here, I bought you a gift.’ Muza holds out a pen with the bank logo on it. There’s a short broken chain dangling off the back of it.

  ‘For me? Thank you. You are most generous. So it went well?’ Elijah asks.

  ‘That place practically throws money at me whenever I walk in. They know what a great businessman I am, and that any venture I undertake will always be a resounding success. They only need a few weeks to process the finances.’

  A song trills from Elijah’s phone and he raises an apologetic finger. ‘Sorry Mr President, this is business, I must take it. I won’t be a second.’ He gets out of the car to take the call in private.

  While he waits for Elijah’s return, Muza contemplates the bank manger’s actual reaction to his request for a loan. He looked like he’d eaten a pile of lemons. One day soon, when he is the CEO of South Africa, this bank will come under state capture, he thinks. And unfortunately he will have to make some budget cuts, and that bank manager will be the first to go. Muza takes the manager’s plastic nameplate from his pocket. It will help him to remember who to fire when that day comes. Mr Jabulani Sigege will regret the day he ever laid judging eyes and a lemony tongue on his future leader. Or maybe he’ll do away with this whole bank. After all, if it’s of no use to him now, then how will it be of use to his people?

  ‘Sorry about that, you were saying?’ Elijah says, sliding back into his seat.

  ‘I was saying that they love me in there, it’s great to have such close partnerships with friends in finance. It has always stood me in very good stead before.’

  Elijah’s phone rings again, but he waves it off this time.

  ‘Your ring tone is so familiar, what is that song?’ Muza asks.

  ‘It’s “Hava Nagila”,’ Elijah says.

  ‘Hmmm, I haven’t heard of it, is it new?’

  ‘Actually, it’s been around for ages,’ Elijah says.

  ‘Is it by those “Make the Circle Bigger” guys?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Elijah says as he turns his phone to silent. ‘So where to next, boss?’

  ‘You know, comrade, I’m a great judge of character, and I can already tell that you have a real head for business.’

  ‘Coming from you, my hero for all these years, that’s a big compliment,’ Elijah says.

  ‘I think I have a business proposal that you might be interested in.’

  ‘That sounds interesting,’ Elijah says.

  ‘Why don’t we chat about it over something to eat? My treat,’ Muza says.

  ‘I could eat,’ Elijah responds.

  ‘Great. Do you want a Streetwise, or shall we share a bucket?’

  As Elijah pulls out of the bank parking lot, Muza is careful to grip the handle above the window and raise his right buttock as they drive over the speed bumps on their way out. They won’t catch him a second time. You can say a lot about Jeremiah Gejeyishwebisa Muza, he thinks, but one thing is true: he always learns from his mistakes.

  THE WRITER

  ‘The subscriber you have dialled does not exist.’

  How can Michelle have changed her number already? Maybe this time she really meant it when she said it was over. Surely not? I’m good-looking, charming and funny, that’s the trifecta, and I have the whole floppy fringe, five o’clock shadow and puppy-dog-eyes thing going on, women love that. I thought she’d be angry for a bit, and then she’d get over it and take me back, like she usually does.

  I peer through my swollen eye and scroll through my recently called numbers to find Dumi.

  ‘Hi, it’s Dumi Mhlangu here, I’m not available to take your call right now, but please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.’

  Beeep.

  ‘Hi Dumi, it’s me, Matthew,’ I babble, my voice coming out an octave higher than usual, shaky with shock. ‘Please, you need to help me. I was attacked and I think I need an ambulance. My nose might be broken, I’ve got a black eye, and there’s something wrong with my finger, MY TYPING FINGER. I’m not kidding. What if I can’t write anymore? Maybe we should call the police. There are these two crazy men, they’re really dangerous and I…’

  ‘This mailbox cannot receive new messages, please try again later,’ a robotic voice drones before cutting me off.

  THE EX-PRESIDENT

  ‘Oh no,’ Muza says, patting at imaginary back pockets, then the front pockets of his tracksuit pants.

  ‘Oy gevalt, what? Have you lost something?’ Elijah asks as he bleeps the BMW locked.

  ‘This is embarrassing, but I seem to have left my wallet at the Homestead, entirely by accident,’ Muza says.

  ‘Please don’t worry about it for even one minute, what’s some KFC between new friends? Let me get this one.’

  ‘I feel so embarrassed. This was going to be my treat.’

  ‘Really, don’t worry about it, Mr President. Buying you lunch would be a mitzvah.’

  ‘You’re a good man, Elijah, a very good man. I can tell that we are going to become great friends,’ Muza says as they join the back of the queue and Elijah takes out a large roll of cash.

  ‘I think so too,’ Elijah says.

  Bingo, thinks Muza, slapping his new opportunity heartily on the back.

  THE WRITER

  I hobble into the bathroom, dig in my toiletry bag for Panado, and find five pills left in the bottle. I dry-swallow three and save two for later. In the mirror my eye looks only slightly bruised and swollen, but I feel like I’ve been hi
t by a truck.

  I stumble back to the bed and lie down. Feeling sorry for myself, I randomly scroll through the contacts on my phone. I stop at Lisa. We met at some First Thursdays gallery opening a few years ago, and dated for a Joburg minute. She was a designer: smart, successful, hot. I can’t remember why we broke up.

  ‘Lisa, it’s Matt Stone.’

  ‘Matthew? Wow, long time no hear.’

  ‘I was just thinking about you and all the good times.’

  ‘I know, right, those were the days.’

  ‘How the hell are you? I’d love to catch up with you sometime.’

  ‘Connor, put down that knife! Jack, stop teasing your brother. Riley, careful baba, don’t put your finger up the dog’s bum, he’s not a toy. Sorry, Matt, it’s a bit chaotic here. I’d love to get together. We could meet at the park – things here are a little rough, the IVF cleaned us out, so I could really do with the distraction. I’ll bring the triplets, they’d love to meet you.’

  ‘Oh bugger, sorry, I’m at work and my other phone is ringing, I have to get that, I’ll call you early next week and we can make a plan, the park sounds great. Can’t wait. Chat soon. Take care.’

  ‘JACK! Get out of the washing machine this instant!’

  I end the call, delete her number, then keep scrolling.

  ‘Sindi! It’s Matt Stone. Long time. How are you?’

  ‘Matt Stone, wow. That’s a blast from the past. What’s up, guy?’

  ‘Oh, not much, I was just lying here thinking about you, remembering all our good times.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Remember that time we did it on the beach in Durban, when I was reporting on the Gunston 500?’

  ‘That wasn’t me, dude.’

  ‘Of course it was, remember? We skinny-dipped in the sea afterwards. I was digging sand out of my belly-button for weeks.’