by Haden, Ross;
Andisiwe dropped the phone, covered her face with her hands, lay back on her bed and groaned. Then she heard the front door suddenly open, and before she could scream, she heard the voice of her aunt.
“Andisiwe!” called Aunt Mimi, and the next second, “What on earth have you done with my precious clock?”
Aunt Mimi reached the door of the bedroom in a few quick strides, so Andisiwe was not even able to pick up her clothing from the floor. The older woman stood for a moment taking in the scene in the bedroom. Before Andisiwe could say a word a second woman joined her aunt.
It was Siya.
“Surprise!” said Siya joyfully, her words dying in her mouth as her eyes settled on her friend.
A moment later, Andisiwe burst into tears. Both women rushed into the room, and soon all three were settled amongst the pillows on the bed.
Aunt Mimi explained that she had been away organising Andisiwe’s surprise birthday party. “You hadn’t forgotten your own birthday tomorrow had you, Siwe?” she asked in surprise. “And I went all the way to fetch Siya as your special present?”
Between her tears Andisiwe explained what had happened the previous evening, leaving the two women to fill in the details.
“But how did Thabo get into the garden? Only you and I know the code. No, I think that guy Jacob just couldn’t wait to get you into bed. He slipped a little something in your drink then he stole my clock on the way out. As for Thabo, well there are many strange sounds at night and when you are here by yourself it is easy to mistake …” her voice trailed off as she stared out into the garden, as if she was remembering something.
“Shame, my friend,” said Siya, leaning over to give Andisiwe a hug. “Looks like city life just chewed you up and spat you out.”
“But Jacob wasn’t … it was Thabo who was the con …” cried Andisiwe. “I’m sure Thabo is behind this. We can’t just sit here when Jacob is in real danger. I just know it. I heard him speaking to Thabo on the phone. He said Thabo was threatening him. And I did see Thabo in the garden. He is the one who stole the clock … and now he has Jacob,” she cried.
Just then the intercom buzzed. Andisiwe jumped up, her heart pounding. Her aunt moved quickly to answer it.
“Hello. Yes, this is Mrs Mvete. Yes, I do have an Andisiwe staying with me, Sergeant Pokela.” She pressed the buzzer to let the police officer in.
“Auntie?” Andisiwe said, looking at her aunt in terror.
“It’s OK, my child. Sergeant Pokela just wants to ask a few questions. It seems like they’ve caught the culprit.”
“Oh, thank God. Did they say anything about Jacob? Is he safe? Did Thabo kidnap him?”
But Aunt Mimi was already letting the sergeant inside.
“I do believe these are yours,” he said, handing over the gold clock and a bag full of priceless jewellery.
That’s not all the sergeant had for them. He had a tale that would leave them speechless.
“Yes … do you see now that Thabo is a small-time crook compared to Jacob? Oh, he used Jacob’s car and his penthouse. And perhaps he helped himself to the petty cash now and then. And I am sorry he lied to you, my dear, and made you pay the bills,” he said, looking at Andisiwe. “But Jacob – now he was in another league. He was playing with the big boys. He is a big-time criminal.”
Aunt Mimi shook her head and clicked her tongue. “Oh yes,” she said. “Now I remember. That’s exactly what I heard the bitchy ex-girlfriend say about Jacob. That you never wanted to cross him. A friend of hers had once and …” her voice trailed off.
Andisiwe looked at her aunt in horror.
“It was thanks to Thabo that we have Jacob in custody now,” nodded Sergeant Pokela. “It seems like he really was concerned for your safety when you started dating Jacob. You see, Thabo found something in the boot of Jacob’s car. Jacob had been careless and left some evidence that is proof that he is in league with a ring of criminals we have been after for months.”
“And Thabo?”
“Well, Thabo is on his way here I believe. He has come to apologise. Seems like he has decided to turn over a new leaf. Tell the truth … come clean.”
When Aunt Mimi shut the door behind Sergeant Pokela Andisiwe burst into tears. “I didn’t mean to end up … to sleep … I was just so frightened.”
“Never mind those two losers,” said Siya, snuggling closer to Andisiwe. “Cheer up, girl. Your aunt has invited tons of amazing guys to this party. She told me.”
Andisiwe smiled faintly. “What will I say to Thabo? Do you think he really will change his ways?”
“He must apologise first,” said her aunt firmly. “He treated you badly. On the other hand, he did try to warn you about Jacob, and that must have taken some courage, standing up to and threatening a man like Jacob.”
“And to think I didn’t want to listen to Thabo …”
“That was understandable. How were you to know?”
“But what if Thabo wants … you know … to date again?”
“Well, he will have to work really hard to get you to even consider going on another date. And even then …”
“There are many more fish in the sea,” said Aunt Mimi. “And some of the most beautiful ones will be coming to your party. Just wait and see.”
“I think I’ve still got a lot to learn about guys,” Andisiwe said.
When Thabo arrived he was holding the biggest bunch of roses Andisiwe had ever seen. But this time she didn’t feel giddy and overwhelmed. She just took the roses and the chocolates and put them on the kitchen table.
It wasn’t how many roses a guy gave her or how expensive the chocolates were that mattered. That much she knew for sure.
She would listen to Thabo’s apology. But she would keep an open mind and not make any hasty decisions.
Discussion questions
•Would you trust Thabo now, and forgive him if you were Andisiwe?
•What do you think about Aunt Mimi’s lifestyle? Do you think there are any negative aspects to the way she lives?
About the author
Michelle Faure grew up in the Eastern Cape and now lives in Knysna. She started her writing career as a journalist for the Port Elizabeth Herald newspaper. She has written many television scripts, including scripts for the Discovery Channel. She is also a keen blogger, and writes for The Edge, a local newspaper on the Garden Route. She has written youth novels for Cover2Cover Books and Oxford University Press and many short stories for the FunDza mobi network.
Being a mentor…
Writing collaboratively has always interested me. The act of sharing ideas and pulling characters out of the ether together adds another dimension to the magic of the writing process.
Writing these two stories with Zikhona Gwadiso was a rare privilege. She is a woman much younger than I am and she lives in a world very different to mine. There was a different energy that flowed from her, free, for the most part, from the kind of cares that I bring to my writing. I enjoyed her lightness, her sense of fashion, and attention to the little details.
In the end, we were both delighted with the stories that emerged from the blending of our two worlds.
7
DAMAGE
Sonwabiso Ngcowa
We had done the rounds: Mfundo’s home, Lwando’s home and our soccer captain, Phumlani’s home. Even the old man, Ludwe, who is always present at our soccer practice as our unofficial coach, didn’t escape our thieving hands. In the last year we stole a total of six sheep from Tat’uLudwe’s kraal. He is still searching for his missing sheep.
Different sangomas took turns to lie to him. One told him that a businessman from Bholothwa, a nearby village, stole the sheep. One told him that a farmer from Gxoterha stole them. Those must be fake sangomas. We ate all those sheep. The skin, skulls and feet of all the sheep lie on the bottom of Ngwengwe River
.
“Mpasele, pass to him! Pass the ball!” I hear the screams.
“USabelo uyedwa, he’s free, pass to him.”
Mandisi makes the ball curve from the centre line. I chest-trap it and let it bounce at my feet. I put my head up to look for orange bibs matching mine. Two boys, strong and skilful, are defending.
Shay’ ithembisa to the left. One runs to fetch like a dog while the ball stays at my feet. I shield the remaining defender with my body.
“Koshiyana oomam’ ukondla – it’s a battle of whose mother fed their son best!” I hear the voices scream. He is not giving me much space. He is closely guarding my right leg.
No more options! I kick the ball up with my left foot and boot it hard in the direction of the opposing side’s keeper. The black-and-white Adidas ball curves. Tat’uLudwe!
I nail my feet to the ground. Fear grips me. Goose flesh takes over my whole body. Tat’uLudwe is leaning against his walking stick, right on the touchline. He always wants both his hands to be free so that he can wave them in the air. Then you know that he wants you to push forward. He is passionate about the game. But this time his arms remain folded. Why?
I freeze. Tat’uLudwe’s body twists. He falls face down on the hard soil. His walking stick digs a deep line in the dirt. My curve ball has gone straight for his stick.
The whole team runs to him. He leans heavily on Lwando as we help him up. As soon as he is on his feet we pull each other back.
“Sapha kwedini, give the ball to me,” Tat’uLudwe demands. He grabs Lwando with his left hand. With his right, he draws out an Okapi knife from the back pocket of his pants.
“Intoni, andifuni,” Lwando shakes his head. He never gives up easily.
“Give him the fucking ball, Lwando. Don’t you see he’s got a knife. Stupid man!” Phumlani, our captain, screams.
Phfffff, our ball goes pap as Tat’uLudwe slices a big hole in the leather. That was the last of our decent soccer balls. He must suspect something about us and those sheep.
“Tell your coach to come see me at my house,” Tat’uLudwe says, then turns and limps home. We strip off our soccer bibs and throw them in the club kit bag. Then we go our separate ways. Mfundo and Lwando accompany me home.
“Ntwana, we have not been to your kraal yet,” Lwando says.
“No, no, remember what I said. I told you, we only have a few sheep in my kraal … only seven mfowethu …” I blurt out. I can’t let them come to our kraal.
“That was last year, mfethu. You have new little lambs now. It is not fair that we steal from every other home, including ours, and not yours.” I just look at Lwando when he says this.
When we reach my home I don’t say goodbye to them but just fling the gate open and walk inside our yard. I don’t look back.
“Were you with those naughty boys again?” my sister Nonyaniso wants to know, as I walk into the house.
“Voetsek! I don’t say anything about your friends or about that nerd of a boyfriend, Sihle.” I know I am being nasty but I can’t stop myself. Nonyaniso is always at me about something.
“Hmmm, let me see. He is handsome, has a good job, is well mannered. Oh ja, does not smoke dagga. Does that make him a nerd? No! So buzz off, bhuti.”
“Ce … ag, handsome! You don’t know what handsome is.”
“I know he does not look like you or any of your friends. Mmmm, his hair is neatly cut, he has soft hands …”
“Shut up. Say one more word and I will hit you.” I can’t bear the sound of her voice, comparing me to the perfect Sihle.
“And you think I won’t hit you back? Ha! You must be mad, bhuti!”
She stands, her hands on the hips of her slender body, challenging me. Some of her hair has come loose from the band she has tied it back with, but she doesn’t bother to push it back from her forehead. Her eyes are focused on mine.
“Qalisa ngoku, go on – start now if you are going to hit me,” she says, taking a step towards me.
“You think you can fight me only because you know Mama will take your side. She always does. It makes me sick.” It’s true, my mother always takes Nonyaniso’s side.
“Ooh, ag shame, wena. I wish you could be a gentleman. The brother I used to know. You have changed. Look at you, getting ready to hit a girl. Shame on you, Sabelo.”
“Shut up, I have more important things to think about.” I push past her to my room and slam the door shut.
Mama has been making me wait for months for a pair of new shoes, but she keeps buying Nonyaniso new clothes. It isn’t fair.
Then I remember Lwando’s words. I have to find a way to stop the Black Tights – as we call our small gang – from hitting my kraal tonight.
~•~
“Aaahhh, Mama, yizo bona, come see.”
Nonyaniso shouts across the yard. My mother is working in her vegetable garden a distance from the house. Nonyaniso is standing in the doorway to the wooden shack that we use to store wood. I can see Mama. She is just filling the last watering can from the drum of rain water. Every late afternoon her small vegetable garden has to be watered. She trusts no one else to do the job, but her.
I stride over to where Nonyaniso is standing waving her hands in front of her nose. Green flies swarm around a yellow plastic bag at her feet. As I come close I want to vomit because the smell is so bad. Inside the bag is a rotting leg of lamb crawling with worms and maggots. It has been there for two weeks. I was high on dagga when I hid it and I forgot about it soon after.
“Biza, umama.”
“No, no, no, just you wait.”
“What do you mean, Sabelo? Mama has to see this.”
Nonyaniso starts to walk across the yard towards Mama. I push her back. My hands grip the old dress she likes to wear when she is cleaning. I hear the sound of it ripping in my hands.
“Don’t tell Mama about this. She will kill me.”
“No, she will just put you right.”
“No, she’ll kill me. You don’t want that, do you?”
“What is that in the shed?”
“That is a leg of lamb. From a friend.”
“Sabelo, how could you? Let go of my dress. Did you steal that sheep? Why is it hidden?”
“Hayi, hayikhona, my sister.”
“It better not be stolen. Before you know it, you will be in a gang and put all our lives in danger.”
“Trust me. No gang,” I lie.
“OK then, I won’t tell mother. Just don’t do it again.”
That evening I run to the old dilapidated house where our gang always meets.
“Guys, guess who I just saw drinking at MaDlamini’s?” I say to the boys.
“Wait, your dad. Or wait, no, he is dead, it won’t be him,” Lwando says sarcastically and bursts out laughing.
“That’s not funny, Lwando.” I did not like his joke about my father.
“Ja, sorry, mfethu. This one is high. Ubone bani, who did you see?” Mfundo asks.
“Tat’uLudwe.”
“Who? Oh yeah, he must have got paid by the Lwanas. He just finished making a shit load of mud bricks for them.”
“Yabona ke, Sabelo, now you are talking,” Lwando says passing the zol to me.
Every time I touch the zol something feels like it is rising in my throat. It’s like my body is resisting it in some way.
When I was younger umama used to do isikhungo, the evening prayer, every night before we went to bed. I used to join her. Now, instead of praying I am out smoking zol. She still does the prayer; I am just not there. Mama believes in nothing else but her God. I sometimes don’t know what God she prays to. She treats me like dirt. Nonyaniso gets all the nice things.
“Hey, hey, Sabelo. Stop dreaming. Puff, puff and pass that zol,” Lwando complains.
“Oh yeah, sorry,” I say and lean back against the mud
wall of the ruined old house.
“Makazilelwe, let us wear our black stockings over our heads when we steal tonight in memory of Sabelo’s father,” says Lwando. We always wear stockings over our heads so that no one can recognise us. I don’t know why Lwando keeps bringing up my father’s name now.
“Hayi, no, Lwando. Don’t say such a thing,” Mfundo says, before I get a chance to say something to Lwando.
“Relax pantyhose gents, you stress too much. Did Sabelo not complain about his father always hitting him when he was still alive? OK, let us put on our black tights for Ludwe,” Lwando changes his tune.
“That sounds like a plan,” I agree, relieved that the gang’s attention is now off my kraal and my family sheep.
Mfundo nods. He leans back against the wall.
Lwando’s deep drag on the zol makes it go raa trr trr nqa nqa, nqaa nqa. I let him enjoy it without asking him to pass. Ashes fall on his left thigh. His eyes almost close as he drags the last bit of ganja. He smokes it until it burns his fingers then he throws what is left onto the newspaper at his side. Dazed, he stares at the wall. Slowly he gets up and dusts the ashes off his pants. He keeps dusting, even when the ash is gone. I feel his pain as he hits his thighs again and again.
“Aarg … pthaaa!” He spits right onto the wall – close range – then turns around. Some of his phlegm is still stuck to his chin.
“Sis maan, Lwando, sula isilevu, wipe your chin,” I say to him, turning to look away.
“Where is your black stocking?” he demands of Mfundo. “Why aren’t you ready for tonight’s mission?”
Mfundo sits up, “About tonight … I don’t understand …”
“What don’t you understand about putting on black tights over your head?” Lwando asks.
“Imission yanamhlanje mfethu, today’s mission …” Mfundo continues. But then he stops. Lwando’s eyes are fixed on his. He drops his head.
“Speak!” shouts Lwando. “Are you scared to rob one old man now? Robbing one man is nothing. My aunt tells me that gangs in Cape Town do the craziest things. I am talking gang rapes, stealing cars, drive-by shootings, crazy shit like that. Now that is hard-core gangster. That way you get money, earn respect. And some gangster-loving by your gang.”