It Takes Two

by Haden, Ross;

  “Go and eat,” he says to me, again sticking his white tongue through the gap. Sies maan, he makes me sick. All the other prisoners have moved to the dining area. He is sitting and eating meat from an ice-cream container. As I walk out I can feel his eyes on my back. I am scared. I know what happens at night in prison.

  In the dining area, men in orange overalls lean forward over the tables. Young men, some very ugly, and some handsome, eat greedily.

  I collect my food from the counter where a skinny man stands with a big spoon, ladling it out. Phthaaa, cabbage cooked with water and rice, land on my plate.

  As I sit down with a group of men I think of what my teacher said. She told me that people who are ugly inside commit crimes.

  “You are beautiful inside, Sabelo. Jongi nto. Don’t do this to yourself. If you are not at school at your age, the chances are that you will do crime.”

  We had been talking about my school record. I had the highest number of days absent in the previous term and had made up my mind by then that I was leaving school.

  I look at the men around me. The three in front of me are physically ugly to look at. All damaged. With each of them I do the same thing, clean them up in my imagination to get to what they had been before.

  I remove the scar off the cheek of one, put an eye back where one had been gouged out. I look at him again and see the man he once was. I am going mad.

  I take the tattoos off the face of one. I put back the missing skin on part of his nose. I see a son of some parents I do not know; I see the son he had been before.

  I look at two other men. I don’t have to work so hard to make them pretty. People don’t do crime because they are physically ugly, but sometimes crime makes them ugly inside.

  Mother made me ugly on the inside. She gave Nonyaniso twice the love she needed. Some of mine was in there also. I turned to our gang, for brothers, people to look up to – for love.

  “You are a slow eater, neh,” one of the prisoners says.

  “Ja,” I reply to him.

  A strike on my left shoulder sends strips of shock down to my toes. I turn and looked into the one eye of the man sitting next to me. He points to where his one eye is missing.

  “This is from trying to resist,” he says. “You can’t be a free man here. You will never be, inside these walls. Those men over there are responsible for this,” he says pointing to the hole again.

  I can’t reply to him. I just scoop the cold cabbage from my plate. I swallow it down without chewing.

  Mama has not been to visit me in prison. She still does not care.

  The next day I sit crying the whole day. I am scared, seeing how my life has turned out. I have arrived at my destination too fast. I took a one-way road. I am going to die in here, I think.

  Mfundo is confirmed dead. Killed by an angry mob. I can’t believe that I won’t see his smile again; that we won’t compete to see who can blow the biggest dagga smoke ring again, make circles in the air; or who could get a sheep out of the kraal the quickest.

  First we had competed about who would score the most goals for the team. I wish it had stayed like that.

  It is even worse that I couldn’t say goodbye to him. If Lwando had the chance to go to the funeral, he would slip in anqotyi, dagga, in that coffin, a Nas CD and a picture of a red gusheshe, BMW E20i, Mfundo’s dream car. I think these things sadly to myself as I lie in the flea-riddled excuse of a bed. I want to die.

  On the one side of the wall is scrawled gang graffiti: ‘26 Money over bitches’. On my side, ‘28 Blood thirsty’.

  “Sabelo, when you walk into a room, people must warm up to you, so smile a little. People must never suspect that you may steal from them.” I keep hearing Lwando’s voice in my mind, remembering the times he bossed me and Mfundo.

  “Sabelo Jonginto, Sabelo Jonginto vuka s’botshwa; get up, prisoner!” The voice bounces off the walls off the corridor, calling my name.

  Five men in beige clothes and brown shoes walk in. They shove me down the corridor. We walk into a room with one table and two chairs. One prison warder remains with me. He does not talk a lot. He is a one-word man, “Sit.”

  A coloured woman walks in. She is wearing a cream linen suit and black shoes, a slight smile on her face. Her damp hair is tied back in a ponytail. She hugs a blue file close to her chest with her left hand. In her right hand she dangles car keys. I envy her bitterly. Car keys to me mean freedom.

  The prison warder closes the door and stands dead silent, next to me.

  “My name is Ingrid. I am your state-appointed lawyer,” the woman says pulling up a seat.

  “Has it been raining outside?” I ask her.

  “Yes, for two days now.”

  I think of Lwando. Tall, very dark-skinned and blood-red-eyed Lwando Mpahlayimbi. He loved it when it rained. Stealing sheep was easier. People went to bed early. He also liked his meat on cold, rainy days.

  “When it rains, you are not going to see people on the outside, no, because people of this village melt.” We would laugh and laugh when he said this.

  The woman slides her arm forward. I look her in the eye, and then at the prison warder, and back at her again.

  “How are you today?”

  “Phuh, do you wanna know how I feel? I …”

  “Hey, hey, don’t be cheeky with her,” the warder interrupts. A few more words from him this time.

  “Meneer, I will show you what cheek is!”

  I crack then. I bang both my hands on the table, push it so that it shoves against the woman. I get up.

  The warder speaks fast on the walkie-talkie. Two other guards rush in. They ask the woman to give them a few minutes. She gets up and walks outside holding her stomach.

  One of them pulls a chair towards the corner. He jumps on the chair and pulls the surveillance camera sideways so that it faces the wall.

  “Mthimkhulu, uyicokise, kodwa ingophi; hit him good, but he must not bleed,” he says to the one as he hops back down from the chair.

  I am hit with a baton twice, hard on the left shoulder. I feel another warder’s shoe ram against my back as I am pushed forward. I fall flat on the hard concrete floor. Kicks and punches land on my thin body.

  “Uxolo bhuti, I am sorry!” I scream.

  One of them has the black sole of his brown shoe pressed against my cheek. They carry on punishing me severely. I start crying.

  “Wipe those tears and get ready to talk to the lady,” one says. I get up and quickly sit on the chair. I’m now in excruciating pain. But ready to listen to the lady. The two warders walk out. One remains standing next to me, dead silent. The woman walks back in.

  “Please, please tell me what it is that I must do for you,” I beg her.

  “We need to think about what it is that you can do for yourself, Sabelo,” she says.

  Honestly, I want to cry when she says this. But that might be mistaken for ill-discipline and I will be at the mercy of three big men again.

  “Do yourself a favour, Sabelo. Don’t cause trouble like that. Don’t lie to me. You are young and a first offender, so the court may treat you leniently. Your family needs you,” she says and opens the blue file again.

  “Sabelo, I will ask you some questions. If there is anything you don’t understand please ask me, to repeat or explain. At the end you will get a chance to ask me if you have any questions. I also have a letter to give to you from your sister. But before we start, is there anything you would like to tell me?”

  “No.”

  After the questions the woman hands me a letter from Nonyaniso and walks out of the door.

  I hesitate, waiting for an instruction from the warder. “I tell you when to shit, sleep and eat. You tell me vokol.” This is what he told me after the beating. “I decide how much sunshine you get in a week.” He did not need to tell me that he is my Lord,
vader. I know I will never disobey him again.

  “Get up, we are heading back to your cell,” he says in his deep voice.

  We walk down the stuffy corridor. In front of BB278 he opens the gates with two long keys.

  I think of the woman’s words, “… Tell me no lies.”

  I think about what I have just told her – my own version of what happened on the night of the party. I think of Nonyaniso. I don’t want to read what she wrote in this letter.

  This is a version of the story, I think, that will haunt me forever.

  Nonyaniso writes in the letter that she is going to Cape Town. She does not say anything about the night of the party.

  ~•~

  My sister hates me. I have a friend who died. Black Tights did not pay me. The love from a gang always has a condition. A stupid initiation. A quick road to this dirty prison.

  I want to start all over again. Even if it means Mama, our mother, still favours Nonyaniso. I will be thankful just for a plate of food every night. Even some meat, that Mama cannot pay for upfront. But she makes debt and brings it home. I will stay at home. Be good. But for now I must pay, pay a lot in this hell.

  Thixo ndincede, Lord help me.

  Discussion questions

  •What are some of the reasons that Sabelo became part of the gang, do you think?

  •Do you think there is a chance that he will change his life? What makes you think so?

  About the author

  Sonwabiso Ngcowa was born in the Eastern Cape and grew up there and in Masiphumelele in Cape Town. He completed his Matric at Fish Hoek High school in 2002. In 2011 he made a brave decision to follow his passion for writing. He resigned from his work at the Standard Bank and is now studying a BA at UCT. His first novel In Search of Happiness was published by Cover2Cover Books in 2014. He has had short stories published on FunDza’s mobi network and print anthologies.

  Being a mentor …

  I saw a bit of myself in Asavela as my mentee, he is just great. Asavela came with this talent in him. He knew the angles of his story and could explain them. He directed the movie. As his coach, I just had to guide and nurture this talent. Big Ups to Asavela Peko! Asavela has the ability to capture a character that truly reflects lived human experiences. His fiction reflects real everyday life. Asavela came up with beautiful angles to our stories. In him I am convinced that we have a future African writer.

  8

  FREE AT LAST!

  Asavela Peko

  When I look at Sihle’s photo I get tears in my eyes. I have left behind the village where I was raped, but I have also left behind my true love. Part of me didn’t want to move away from home and my family whom I love, but I want to forget the pain. I am away from those who matter most in my life. Telling Sihle that I was going to Cape Town to college was the hardest thing I have ever done.

  When I had left home for the city it was like approaching a land that knew nothing of my arrival. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy to change my life, but I had my studies to look forward to, and through them I would meet new people. As I got into the bus to Cape Town and waved Sihle goodbye, tears fell from my eyes.

  I have been in Cape Town for a month now. Yes, I have made friends with a girl at college, Sandy, and her crew, but I still miss Sihle and my friends in the village. And I still have nightmares of the rape. I wake up crying and thrashing my arms as if I am trying to fight someone off me. But I can’t remember anything. Nothing that will count: no faces, no voices. I wish I could remember. Then I would know if my worst fear was true. The thought I have tried to bury deep down. Because you see, I think that my own brother, Sabelo, was there that night. But I won’t dwell on this in the daylight hours.

  As I page through my photo album I stop at one special photo. This is one moment captured that I’ll never forget. It is a photograph of me and Sihle in happier times, sitting under the tree outside my house, on a sunny day.

  My aunt, who I live with in Cape Town, leans towards me and rests her hand on my knee.

  “It’s a beautiful photo. Why are you sad?” she asks me.

  “This picture reminds me of the past.”

  She sits next to me on the couch. I can feel the warmth and comfort of her body. “Let me see.”

  I pass the album to her.

  “Forgetting the ones we love often takes a long time but you’ll get through it,” she tries to comfort me, accompanying her words with a hug. “I know he is so far away. But are you still together?”

  How can I explain to her that I couldn’t let Sihle touch me after the rape? How could we go on when it was like that? That’s why I had to leave the village.

  “Yes, Auntie, we are,” I tell her. It is not a good idea opening up to her about my love life. After all she’s older, close to Mama’s age, so she won’t understand. But I am wrong.

  “There’s nothing to be shy of or ashamed about. I understand,” she says quietly.

  She walks into her room and when she comes out she hands me a fifty-rand note. “Quickly go to the shop and get us a loaf of brown bread and packet of sugar.”

  I take the money then run to the shop. I am waiting in the queue when I hear a familiar voice behind me. It’s Sandy.

  “Wow, you look stunning, chommie! I like your dress.” I guess that she is softening me up for one of her crazy plans – she is full of them, since day one at college. And I am right. “Friday evening we are having a girls’ night out. You have to come.”

  “I’ll see,” I hesitate, and then leave her in the shop.

  “Auntie, guess what?” I say when I get back home.

  “I hate guesses mna,” she laughs.

  “Friday is a girls’ night out. I would like to go with my friends. Please?”

  “It’s fine with me, but you know you’ll have to ask your uncle,” she says, looking at me closely. “I know you’re sad, Noni, and I don’t like it when you are sad. Maybe this will cheer you up. OK – never mind your uncle. You can go, but don’t keep me up all night waiting for your return.”

  “Thanks, Auntie.” I give her a big hug.

  Count me in grlfrnd

  I send the SMS to Sandy.

  In the days before Friday I try not to think about Sihle, or the village. Friday must just come, I think to myself.

  “Awusemhle, you look beautiful – like you are going to a wedding,” Auntie says on Friday night when I have dressed up to go out.

  “Like aunt, like niece!” I say to her with a smile.

  I keep looking at the clock on the wall. It’s after six pm now. Where is Sandy?

  Finally, Auntie lets her in through the front door.

  “Yhey! Uyatshisa, chommie,” Sandy says, looking me up and down.

  “I want you in my doorway by ten o’clock tonight. Niyandiva?” Auntie says sternly to me.

  “Crystal clear,” I agree. Sandy nods.

  “Wait a bit, Sandy – I can’t leave my phone behind.” Qhwaku! Qhwaku! Click! clack! I run to fetch my phone. I am back soon: “Masambe, chommie, let’s go friend. I got it.”

  We leave excited. It feels good to forget about my troubles for a night.

  Before we get to the tavern we hear the music pumping. At the Italian House there is such a vibe already.

  “Tjo! Akusagcwele maan apha. It’s so full here,” I say on entering.

  “Uyashiyeka chommie, ziyawa apha. You are old-fashioned, friend; there’s a vibe here.”

  “Chommie yizani ngapha!” we hear our girlfriends calling us.

  “Evening, ladies.” As I greet them I feel everyone’s eyes staring at me, including a young guy who is standing at the bar.

  “Wow! You are stunning, Nonyaniso,” Nosie and Zia say, making me spin around to show them. I’m wearing a long blue dress, black wedge high heels and a boy’s cut.”

  “They ar
e right. You look fabulous,” the guy at the bar says, coming over. I ignore him at first and turn to my friends.

  “Thanks, girls,” I tell them.

  Life goes on, I tell myself after the first drink. I want to forget my other life in the village and drinking seems a quick way to get there.

  After the second drink I start to dance. The young guy who complimented me is handsome, in a different way to Sihle. He is flash – designer clothes, smart watch. He is charming and I am getting drunk. I feel the music and close my eyes. He dances closer to me.

  “Can I tell you something? Not here, somewhere quiet?” he whispers into my ear.

  “OK.”

  He leads me outside. The night is warm. People are drinking out on the street.

  “Ever since you came in I’ve been watching you. You have taken my heart, girl.”

  “Hayibo, bhutiza. We don’t even know each other. How can you say a thing like that?” He offers me a sip from his drink. A bottle of Red Label whiskey, still in the box, is pressed between his arm and ribcage.

  “No thank you,” I say and push the glass back towards him.

  But Sandile has a way about him and I find myself giving him my digits before Sandy and I have to leave to get home.

  “Une swagger lamfana ubume naye, that boy you were standing next to has swag,” Sandy laughs as we all walk down the street together.

  “He looks a bit young though,” says Nosie, also laughing. “Still in high school, I bet …”

  “Me, I like younger guys,” Sandy laughs again. “You can tell them what to do. Uyabona, you see? I like that. Better for you, Nonyaniso. You don’t have a boyfriend and you’re sexy.”

  I haven’t told them about Sihle. I haven’t told them how much I love him. I haven’t told them how I had to leave the village. How could I have stayed there and lived, every day, with people who know I was raped? I was ashamed. As if all that happened is my fault. These girls don’t know anything about my other life in the village.

  Sandy walks with me until we get to the gate of my new home.

  In a moment everything changes – from laughter and giggles with my friends to a pain I can’t bear. As I open the door, it hits me. I wasn’t expecting this.