Such a Lonely, Lovely Road

by Kagiso Lesego Molope

  When the car started, Mdu came on the CD player but he turned it off.

  “Still a fan of Mdu?”

  “Eish man, you know, you know me!” We laughed as the car gathered speed, roaring up the hill. I think we were both making an effort not to look at each other and me pointing out directions to my place seemed the easiest thing to do.

  When we reached my flat I quickly led the way, thankful that it was in a good state. As I was walking up the stairs, I turned around to say something and caught his eyes on my legs. A felt a fizz of pleasure.

  “So what are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Ah . . . you remember I had an aunt here, my mother’s sister?”

  “Yah . . . Yah.”

  “Mama wanted to see her so we drove down yesterday. She stays in Umlazi, so we’re there for three days.”

  I opened the door and looked for a place to put my keys, feeling somewhat disoriented in my own home. Sediba looked around with curiosity and I was not quite sure what to say just then.

  He met my eye briefly and then turned away, walking towards the sitting room window.

  I said, “Have a seat, I’ll take a shower and then . . . ”

  “I’ll drive you to work,” he said, not looking at me but at the collection of CDs on my shelf next to the window.

  My shower was brief. I exhaled dramatically as soon as I stepped into it, feeling as if I had been holding my breath for the past half hour. A rush of great pleasure and anticipation ran through me. How long had it been? I hadn’t seen Sediba since that fateful afternoon when I had been too drunk to make sense. Since then, whenever I went home to visit I very rarely saw him, and I never stuck around for more than a day or two anyway. We had gone back to the way things were before he injured his hand, eyeing each other from across the street like strangers. I was excited to see him now and found myself wondering if he may be seeing someone. His presence along awakened something old and familiar in me, something I wanted to hold on to. He looked happy to see me—but what if he was not past what had happened between us?

  When I walked out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, crossing the small space between the bathroom and the bedroom, I saw him making an effort to keep his eyes on my CD collection, his back to me. I darted quickly into the bedroom and got dressed in a hurry, conscious of the time.

  When I came out in my work clothes, tugging nervously at jacket, Sediba whistled and we both laughed. He looked me up and down and said: “Ao, ao, Doctor Mosala!”

  I ran my hand from the front to the back of my head and then looked at my watch without seeing the time.

  “They must be lining up to see you at the hospital,” he said, reclining against the sofa, still watching me closely.

  “Do you want something to eat?”

  “No,” he said, standing up. “No, I ate very early.”

  I nodded, picked up my bag and tucked in my shirt. Sediba walked towards me and straightened my tie. At the sight of his hands on my tie, his body’s proximity to mine, I felt my breath quicken and cleared my throat to make it go away. His voice was serious and he looked me right in the eye when he said: “So, are they lining up?”

  I shook my head. “I . . . I’m not seeing . . . I mean, yes. Yes, there are many very flirtatious . . . women. But . . . ”

  “Only women?”

  “Yes.” It took all my courage to look him in the eye. Although I was waiting for him to, he didn’t make to move closer but still kept his eyes on mine. We both laughed nervously.

  “I have to go to work,” I said, fiddling with my keys.

  He opened the door and we went out.

  We made our way through Durban’s early-morning rush in silence with the radio off. When we reached the hospital I found myself looking around for familiar faces that would see me. The unreasonable, fearful voice in my head said that anyone who saw me next to him would know. Sediba put his elbow on his open window with the other hand on his gearshift. He looked around outside at the people and I felt he was making an effort to keep his eyes away from me.

  “So this is where I work,” I said.

  “OK,” he cleared his throat and nodded slowly.

  “When do you go back?” I asked.

  Sediba smiled and looked at me. “What time does your shift end?”

  I paused to think, running my finger along the edge of the dashboard. I was afraid of what was starting but also very tired of being afraid. I didn’t want him to go back home, to be so far away again; in Durban, where no one knew us, I felt more courage to let something happen.

  Finally I said, “Come to my house around seven tonight . . . if, if you want. We could go out for supper.”

  His eyes widened and he cracked a smile. I think he was surprised.

  “Sure, Jo,” he said.

  As I stepped out of the car, one foot in and the other on the ground, I turned back and looked at him. “It’s really nice to see you.”

  “Sure, Jo. Sure, sure,” he was nodding, eyes understanding.

  I really wanted this time to be different. We were not teenagers out of high school anymore and I was nowhere near my parents or my childhood friends. I was exhausted by my own loneliness—even ashamed of it, especially when I could feel my old school friends’ awkwardness through the phone or see it in their faces as their eyes darted around, attempting not to look at me. When the topic inevitably veered towards women and marriage I would let them do the talking, nodding in agreement, dreading the moment the conversation would turn to me. When they’d inevitably ask, “So . . . what about you? Are you seeing anyone?” I forced a smile and said, “You know me, I’m never seeing anyone in particular.” I think most of the time they were grateful I was evasive and were happy to let it go.

  Seeing Sediba had awakened my senses. Things felt a lot brighter that morning. Even the chaos of the hospital was exciting instead of overwhelming. I couldn’t remember the last time I had had something to look forward to.

  And the day was not moving fast enough. I had to tell a patient’s family that he would need to go to intensive care, and instead of my usual calm, composed, and compassionate approach, I worried that I had rushed through the consultation and not given them the empathy they deserved. Luckily the attending physician didn’t seem to have noticed. The patient’s wife had held a tissue to her nose and cried for the duration of the meeting, and I was ashamed of feeling impatient with her, wanting her to sort herself out so I could get back to my work. My father would have been appalled. I was acting so unlike the physician he had groomed.

  By six in the evening my shift was finished and my colleague Andrew gave me a lift back to my flat.

  Andrew and I had started at the hospital at the same time. He had been brought up in America by South African parents and had returned after the first democratic elections in the country. He always spoke about the disparities between people of different classes and different colours. I saw him as a man sorting out his roots, yearning for South Africa to finally feel like the place his parents had spoken to him about as they raised him in a foreign land. He wanted to be friends with me, and I liked him well enough, sometimes had drinks with him after work but I’d never made a solid effort to befriend him.

  I wanted him to be quiet so I could sort out my thoughts but he was chatty that day.

  He turned on the radio and said, “So when are you getting a car? Not that I don’t want you to keep riding with me, but you’ve been eyeing that BMW for so long dude!” He laughed his light, easy laugh that always surprised me because it seemed so incompatible with his very low voice, and looked from me to the road. I stuck my face out the window and felt the fresh, warm breeze against my face, and it was calming. Every day I took time to feel the fresh air to wash off the smell of cleaning products and human fluids from the hospital.

  “I don’t know
. Still saving up,” I grinned at Andrew.

  “I’m thinking of selling this thing and buying a new car. But not a BMW. That’s a German car. My dad would freak if I bought a German car.”

  I turned to him and tried to engage. “Why?”

  Thankfully we had turned a corner and were approaching my home.

  “Because he’s Jewish, his parents survived the Holocaust. I think he has to be more Jewish than the average guy because he married a Christian girl.”

  I shook my head and smiled. Andrew mentioned his parents’ marriage a lot. The difference between his parents’ backgrounds seemed to consume him.

  I said: “Yes, you said. That sounds like it was not easy to accept for your grandparents.”

  He shifted in his seat and wrinkled his forehead. I could see he was getting ready to have a long, involved discussion and now I regretted saying anything.

  “You’re never with the person your parents want you to be with,” he said, then ran his hands up and down the steering wheel and focused intently on the road. I often had the feeling he was trying to say something to me but didn’t know how.

  “Do you know what I mean?” he asked, but the question came too late and it was time for me to get out.

  I shrugged and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Yup! Thanks man. Thanks for the lift!” I hopped out in a hurry.

  “Hey Kabelo, if you ever want to just hang out and chat this weekend, let me know . . . ”

  I nodded and waved as I walked away.

  Making my way up the stairs of the complex—skipping two stairs at a time like a little boy—I suddenly found myself missing my old friends from school and the comfort of our rowdy schoolboy relationships. I missed friends who were willing to just let me be. There was something very anxious about Andrew. He seemed to want to have everything out in the open in a way that was unfamiliar to me. He once told me about a brother who was mentally ill. “Schizophrenia man.” I had known him only a few weeks then. Whenever people disclose difficult personal information, they tend to expect the same from you. It was an exchange I preferred not to be a part of. The point of me moving to different places was usually to get away from intimacy.

  Feelings. They were like tools I didn’t know how to use. Give me a wound any time, I thought, and I know what to do. I could never work with people’s sadness. When I reached my flat I raced around getting ready. I cursed myself for not taking a cab that would have taken a straight route and dropped me off twenty minutes earlier. Andrew had been slow and chatty, obviously hoping to be invited up or out. I should have known better.

  My flat looked fine but my clothes reeked of hospital scent. A quick shower, two pairs of boxer shorts and three pairs of jeans later I was ready, sort of. A clean white t-shirt was in my wardrobe next to a soft, light grey one that I hardly ever wore but I knew Sediba would be in a white t-shirt, so to avoid looking like twins I put on the grey one. I wanted to shave, but was afraid I would cut myself if I did, my hands could not be steadied. Still, I splashed a dash of aftershave onto my palms and dabbed it onto my cheeks, washing my hands vigorously afterwards and then rushing out of the room to reevaluate my outfit. There was a photo of us from years ago, at a party at my house before varsity, me sneaking a glance at him from the edge of the pool and Sediba glancing at me with a secret grin. It was framed and on my windowsill. It was not a picture of us so much as it was of the day. It had half our friends in it, people scattered around the pool laughing and drinking. There was a braai stand in the background and my father with a piece of meat on a long fork, his eyes looking in the distance where my mother was talking to Aus’ Tselane. Lelo was caught midair, diving feet-first into the pool. It was a picture of my childhood, of lazy Saturday or Sunday early evenings in my parents’ backyard, with half the neighbourhood enjoying themselves. Sediba and I were at the far ends of the picture and Lelo was in the middle with my father behind him, but I had always seen it as a picture of me and Sediba because it had been taken in the last few days before I left home, in the days when our times together were a delicious secret.

  Now in my bedroom, with the billowing white curtains before me and a gentle breeze floating in through the large open windows, I suddenly worried that he would see it and it would expose my longings, my never having fully let go. So I rushed to find a place to hide it.

  Once I had thrown it into the drawer, the buzzer rang. I froze, then, taking another look in the mirror, sniffed at my armpits. I stood looking at the white intercom receiver, unsure whether to let him come up or tell him I was coming down. Much to my dismay, when I finally picked it up to answer there was no one there. I panicked.

  There was a knock at the door and, taking a moment to compose myself, I turned the doorknob and opened. Sediba stood a few feet away, leaning against the white wall of the corridor, in loose-fitting blue jeans and blue and white lace-up canvas shoes. There was the whole width of the shiny red floor between us and I immediately felt he was too far.

  “Someone let me in,” he said. His white shirt hung nicely over his jeans, barely covering his black belt. I wanted him to step closer and come in but was still too nervous to ask.

  “You OK?” he asked with a shy grin.

  I nodded. “I was just getting ready.”

  “So come. Let’s go,” he held out his hand but dropped it before I reached him. As I followed him down the stairs he asked about my day and I asked about his. By the time we reached the car we had fallen into talk about our old childhood friends and he was bringing me up to speed on township news; it seemed suddenly like we were sitting in my parents’ backyard talking the way we used to.

  In the car on our way up the road, however, I started to feel a wave of regret, thinking how we had left things the last time I saw him—and then I was gripped by the urge to tell him how sorry I was, properly, the way I had practiced in my mind many times but had never had the courage. Over the years I had thought of calling him many times—especially in those first few months in Cape Town—but between regret and a pull away from everything back home, I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. Now I started, “The last time I saw you was so long ago,” my eyes were on the street life as we drove up past some roadwork and Durban’s newer buildings towards Florida Road with its many restaurants and bars.

  Sediba looked over and smiled, playfully hitting my shoulder. “You were just getting settled at varsity Jo,” he said.

  “I was . . . ” I rubbed my neck, looking for the right words to say.

  He didn’t let me wallow. “It was your parents’ house . . . and it was a long time ago.” Then he opened the window. “I think I like Durban,” he said. “You know, I’ve been driving around looking for products for the salon. I ended up eating around here this afternoon. My mother’s busy with my aunt and it’s so hard to watch my aunt in her sickness, my mother cries to me when my aunt is asleep. When daytime comes, I just want to come out here and be alone. Think about my own things . . . ”

  I understood that for him the past was behind us. We drove slowly up the busy road, passing diners sitting on terraces and groups of young people loitering around, loud music coming from the bars. The scene took me back to Cape Town, but I didn’t want to bring up Cape Town.

  “How long ago was the last time you were here?” I asked him.

  “Last year.”

  “Yah . . . ” I picked up his CD collection that lay between us and looked through it. He hadn’t tried to find me even when he knew I now lived here. I hadn’t been in touch with him, but my mother talked to everyone and I knew people in the location were aware of my move from Cape Town to Durban. I felt somewhat hurt but didn’t want to spoil the evening by showing it. Then, as if he had read my mind, Sediba said: “It was only for a night or two that time and I hardly left my aunt’s side.”

  It sounded like a lousy excuse but enough for me to let it go.
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  On Florida Road we walked up and down trying to decide where to go, bumping into people, avoiding the long lines outside restaurants. Everyone seemed young and ready for a night out, people were dressed for a good time.

  Increasingly I felt frustrated and knew it was not because of trying to find a place to sit but because my longing to be alone with Sediba was rising with every filled restaurant, every long line we had to walk past. Sitting at a restaurant and chatting for any length of time didn’t interest me at all. I didn’t know if I were imagining it, but I sensed he was frustrated too, as our conversation began to feel more and more forced.

  Finally, we were about to enter a place that looked quieter and not nearly full when he tugged lightly at my shirt from behind. “We could get take away,”he said and with a slight shrug, “or we could sit.”

  My heart racing with excitement, I nodded. “Take away,” I said.

  We bought steak and chips and got back into the car without looking at each other. He turned up the music, Mdu singing “Jola,” and we sped back down the hills under rows of large Jacarandas towards my flat. The windows were open; with the breeze and the music and Sediba sitting only a few inches from me I felt, at that moment, freer than I had felt since I was a child. Even at UCT, even when I had lain naked in Rodney’s pool or was smoking zol on his balcony, I was still aware of hiding parts of myself. Now I felt at once nervous and open, unafraid.

  Then unexpectedly the image of Rodney on that day when we met flashed through me. I saw him fumbling with the gearshift and then throwing his head back, laughing from the pit of his stomach. The memory was so sudden—so quick and jarring that I felt dizzy and held on to the door handle for support. Images spun around in my head. I knew they would only grow bolder if I tried to swat them off, so I sat still and let the mind remember, the body shiver and then stiffen, so that when it was all finished I could carry on. Thankfully Sediba didn’t seem to notice.