by Nick Wood
Sure, Xolile may be rubbish at football.
Still, he’s nicer than Numbers.
The night before we leave I approach Numbers, asking whether I can stay, to further my political education in a country where black people actually rule.
“No,” he says, without bothering to look at me. I follow his gaze to the TV screen in his room. His long body sinks deep into the bed.
It looks like an action movie, although it is indeed strange to see only black actors on screen.
Then he turns to me, “Nollywood; the Nigerians know how to make fucking good movies. Smooth, huh, brother?”
“Why can’t I stay here?” I will not let him distract me.
He clucks his tongue with impatience. “Maybe next time. Not now. You’re the only one who’s seen how this Box works. We need you back there.”
He waves me away.
I leave his room, to the sound of gunfire in my ears.
Chapter 12
Martin Crosses Boundaries
Being white has many advantages.
It takes only a few phone-calls after work from my hospital office to the Fundimiso College hierarchy to gain the information I want. I know my voice is recognized as white, my Afrikaner accent sufficiently soft to perhaps even be mistaken for an English white – whatever, the rector and admin staff give me the information I’m after, particularly as I emphasize my doctoral status.
In the space of a few phone calls I have the addresses of Nombuso and a teacher who has adopted a mentor role towards Nombuso and who has also taught Sibusiso. She is a history teacher, a Dr. Wadwalla, resident in Northdale. It must be the same woman who spoke at that PsychSoc meeting.
I also learn that Sibusiso has failed to attend classes, as he has also failed to return to hospital. It is not unusual for people to abscond at the hospital and those not certified seldom get chased. I will need to be discreet about why this one, in case it comes to anyone’s attention. Dr. James, old though he is, watches me at times through slitted eyes.
I ponder the little I know, wondering whether to search the web for more information on all three people from Fundimiso College. I send out preliminary searches on each of their names, but get very little in return, just a standard reply to all: ‘censored’. Fuck! It’s a castrated local web indeed. Not only is the Internet firewalled around South Africa, they’re patrolled by SAP spybots and carved into smaller segregated information fiefdoms by the specific company which manages – and regulates – your access. In Fort Napier’s case, it’s the Health Insurance giant, GETWELL-KWIK.CO.ZA.
I stare at the empty search screen results for Nombuso Ngena; Sibusiso Mchunu and Fariedah Wadwalla. ‘You need insurance against Type-II diabetes; apply now and win an exclusive free golf lesson at Durban Country Club.’ I wonder which bloody company sold my details to GWK.
The screen flashes red. VIRUS ALERT!
I run the anti-viral programme, but it switches itself off halfway through and I stare with dread at the screen: ‘Your IP address has been noted by the South African Police. We will contact you in due course. Have a nice day!’
I download EE recordings onto a Mem-disc, deleting it from the hard drive and pocketing the disc securely.
I switch off the machine and lean back, cursing again. What the hell have you been up to, Sibusiso? And where’s my fucking Box? And now this…
I toy with the idea of swapping machines with Dr. James – perhaps I can interchange all the files completely, enough to fool the police? A desperately stupid ploy indeed – I see the ID scratch marks on the computer casing and remember it’s linked to both our IP address and staff names. Whatever I do, all data will still point to me.
There is one phone call I need to make – and I do so quickly.
I stand up and stretch; body taut with gloomy fear. There seems to be a noose tightening around me, as if that bullet I threw off Umgeni Bridge has gained a boomerang life of its own. The space between my shoulder blades feels itchy, but I am too fat and lack the suppleness to get anywhere near scratching it.
I look down at my broken drawer. Dan will no doubt phone soon as well, to find out how the new Box works. I feel frozen by growing terror, trapped by events, stuck in a web from which there is no escape.
But then I remember how I got Sibusiso to move when I first met him – and now he’s moved away and beyond me, to somewhere I don’t know. As for me, I know suddenly I need to move too – and fast; that unmarked bullet swells in my mind now. Pa had always told me a moving target is hardest to hit, and he’d given me a little spontaneous wave when I’d left him and Ma in Durban – a small hand gesture, but one I hadn’t seen for many years, hinting at an invitation back.
It’s not the right time, though, not now, not until – and if – I can get this shit sorted out and my Box back. To do that, I need to move.
The spaces I can move have also expanded, so come on, Martin; it’s not all a contracting net. But where should I go now?
My door is open, but a nurse knocks. I can tell it is a nurse because I can see his blue uniform; his muscular black wrist, his exposed ANC bracelet. He no longer hides himself from me; there’s some show of trust, it seems.
“Come in, Jabu,” I say.
He peers around the door without stepping inside. “There’s a Special Branch agent, Doctor, here on site. A contact saw him coming in and alerted me – I got to the medical superintendent’s office and caught a snatch of conversation from his office. They want you.”
“Oh,” I say, frozen in place again.
He steps into the office and without warning swings his hip into me. I stagger against the desk, shocked and shaken.
He lifts a finger at me: “Remember what I told you in Imbali, Martin? Well, it’s time to stop dreaming here too – and you’d better come in my car, because they have someone watching the gate with an alert on your car.”
“Why would you help me?”
“The enemy of my enemy... Now stop; pick up your bag, and let’s hamba!”
Jabu’s heels squeak as he leaves the room. I hesitate, surely it’s just delaying the inevitable, they will get me in the end – but if there is no evidence of the second Box, they can’t nail me with anything, surely? Or have they watched us and tracked our local workers on the new Box? If so, we’re screwed.
Jabu steps back into the room without any warning noise from his shoes – and there is a snarl on his face. He towers over me but does not touch me again. He takes a deep breath and then calms his features, before speaking, rapidly.
“You have a choice, Martin: come with me and do something positive for everyone in this country, or stay here and wait for them to come and nail you for whatever you may or may not have done. Even if they don’t get you, you stay now, odds are you’re going to end up hiding away and changing nothing. I’m giving you thirty seconds and that’s it...” He takes a deep breath after such a long speech and taps his watch.
I always need to know where I am going. “Where?”
“Northdale.”
“Wadwalla?”
He smiles, “Fifteen seconds.”
But I’m already out the door.
I’ve known it since Brand’s first invasion of my home.
Being white carries no ultimate guarantees either.
I feel both frightened and small, crouching low on the back seat of Jabu’s car, as we sweep through the gates. There is a sense of something wrong about hiding and running – it’s as if some inherent line of being a traitor has been inevitably and irretrievably crossed.
Jabu calls when all is clear. I sit up and watch the road whistle past his tiny box-car.
Northdale suburb is off a winding road that leads away from the city, jagging left moments after a right turn signposts down to a quarry and farm called ‘Hope’s Folly’. We swing left and I remember the news last week about a fire-fight with an ANC cell. The road right has been sealed by blue and yellow police tape, twined across the road between the trees.
&n
bsp; Jabu opens up as we enter Indian territory, “Will your Thought Box be worth all this trouble for you, Martin?”
I am stunned, speechless.
He smiles as we drive past a cricket field, where a cricket game is indeed going on. The teams look somewhat mixed – at least it’s a motley mixture of black and brown players.
He smiles again: “A SACOS league Martin – Imbali and Northdale residents combined, united in calling themselves black, rather than ‘Indian’ or ‘Bantu’.”
I manage a few croaked words: “How do you know about...?”
He glances down and I see he is navigating from the cell phone secured on his dashboard. He drives his antiquated tiny Fiat hard, so that it is seemingly held together only by love and shoelaces. “I’m a good nurse, Martin, I talk to my patients. In another world, I would no doubt have been a good psychologist or psychiatrist.”
“Sibusiso told you?”
Jabu turns into a close with a range of bright green and orange houses nested together, small houses, with compact gardens and seemingly sprouting from the same or a similar architectural root. He brakes to a stop, turns the engine off at the end of the close and looks at me, with a peculiar half smile on his face.
“Yes indeed he told me, Martin – can we move on quickly please?”
I realise it’s been a while since he last called me ‘Doctor’.
I get out of the car, wondering who else knows and whether Wadwalla would be a good lead to Sibusiso. And why was Jabu helping me track him down? He obviously knew – and had probably known for some time – that this went beyond routine hospital work. Surely his bracelet meant he had alternative loyalties too?
Jabu stands up on the other side of the car, but unlike with my larger Ford in Imbali last Friday, he seems to soar over his roof.
“A bit of déjà vu ne, Martin? So, do you have anything that you want to ask me?”
“Did you help him?”
He’s blank for a moment and then scowls. “No! Wrong question, Martin.” He slams the door and moves past me, brows furrowed, furious.
A couple are walking their baby in a pram but stop for us to step past, staring at us intently. Jabu is stalking up the small path of number 13, swinging his arms angrily. I feel alternatively ashamed and angry with myself. That is a stupid question to ask, no doubt seen as buying into the white stereotype that all black people steal. I’d just had a mad idea pop into my head that perhaps he’d been helping me all along to cover his colluding tracks – with Sibusiso – and that perhaps his ‘helping’ was to keep tabs on me too.
But it looks as if I was so wrong that I’d made a complete balls-up, a total gemors of things.
Jabu is already ringing the bell, not bothering to wait for me. I arrive at the door just as it swings open. A slight Indian woman stares out at us from behind a partly opened latched door. For a moment I don’t recognize her as she’s wearing slacks and a plain beige T-shirt. Then it dawns on me this is Dr. Wadwalla, who had lectured us at ’Maritzburg Varsity’s PsychSoc event for OASS. Brand had snapped a photograph of her when she had been about to speak.
“Yes?” She is guarded and suspicious.
“Hello, sister,” Jabu holds up his wrist.
She scans his face and then flicks her gaze to me. She has an intensely focused stare and an unsettling one at that, so I have to work hard not to break eye contact. She detaches the latch and steps aside to let us in.
The entry hall is short and opens immediately onto a small sitting area, three soft chairs and a radio/CD set in all. There is a brown wooden mantelpiece above an electric fire and some abstract art scattered across the wall, but nothing particularly Indian that I could see.
“Dr. Wadwalla.” She does not offer her hand to shake, but I wonder why her head is uncovered, if she is Muslim.
“Dr. van Deventer,” I say, “from Fort Napier Hospital.”
“Sister Jabu Mbanga, Fort Napier Hospital.”
She raises her right eyebrow but does not gesture towards the chairs, so we continue to stand awkwardly. I notice that Jabu does not look at me.
“How can I help you?” her sharp eyes suddenly seem to dull, although she keeps her body erect, alert, stiff. “Don’t tell me you’ve been sent to certify me, have you?”
Jabu finally exchanges a glance with me. I shake my head vigorously, “I’m a psychologist not a psychiatrist, and I don’t have that sort of medical authority.”
“We’re here about a Fundimiso College student who was under our care – Sibusiso Mchunu. He’s in your history class, as is Nombuso, who is close to him.” Jabu has leaped in.
She nods, slowly and cautiously, “I know Nombuso – but why have you come to me about them?”
“We’re trying to track Sibusiso, who has disappeared,” I say, trying to wrest back control of the conversation. “Nombuso is not keen to talk to us. We believe you may be able to help her open up to us, about where he is. He is not well mentally and has absconded too early from hospital. He still needs some treatment.”
“Disappearances can be for good or bad reasons in this country.” She turns to face me squarely, “Sister Mbanga has shown me his colours, Doctor. So how about you – where do you stand?”
How can I state my political position simply? In psychology, other psychologists have asked me how I position myself in relation to theoretical models. I straddle an eclectic, integrative position, as befits a complex and multiple-faceted reality. I have no easy position – to me that would restrain and restrict too much, opening the way to rhetoric and polarization.
“It depends,” I start.
“Bullshit!”
I jump, but she has moved across to open the front door. She steps back and gestures me out. Jabu is glaring at me again. I see the sky is darkening outside and dusk is falling. I realise then that my world is becoming increasingly fraught. There are people looking for me too; nasty people, even though they are white.
“I want everyone to have an equal stake and say in this unified country,” I say, “and for us all to communicate and empathize with each other.”
She closes the door. “Bravo, Doctor, that wasn’t too hard, was it?”
Jabu grins at me.
She gestures to the chairs. “Sit down then, would you both like some heated rotie and curried mince?”
“Yes please!” Jabu and I have spoken together and we look at each other again.
I take the opportunity. “I’m – uh, sorry, Sister Mbanga,” I say, “for that stupid question I asked earlier.”
Jabu nods, smiles slightly and looks away, moving to sit down on a chair.
Dr. Wadwalla pauses on her way through to what smells like the kitchen in the room opposite us – although the door is only slightly ajar, aromas of cinnamon and curry seep through. “You gentlemen can call me Fariedah,” she says, “And it’s good to hear it sounds as if you’re refining your self-awareness bullshit radar, Dr. Someone van Deventer.”
“Martin,” I say, feeling stung and somewhat embarrassed, “and you don’t sound like a typical Muslim to me – if you don’t mind me saying so, Fariedah.”
Her head rocks back in an explosive burst of laughter that is so completely uninhibited I forget the sting of her comment. “You’re a wise man indeed if you can show me a typical Muslim, Martin – although some in my family do tell me I am only a Muslim with a little ‘m’.”
She vanishes into the kitchen.
As for me, perhaps I am only a traitor with a small ‘t’?
We visit Nombuso as evening settles in, after first picking up Jacky from my dog walker, who had kept her, after I’d called her frantically earlier from my office. I have no doubt anymore that my home is being watched and is no longer safe to return to.
So Jabu swings his cramped car around the darker and lesser-travelled roads towards Fundimiso’s residences in Imbali. Jacky licks my face and farts with excitement at the unexpected road trip. I apologise for her smells in case they think it’s me and I wind the win
dow down as the dim road speeds past us, the shacks only vague shapes in the non-electrified darkness.
Fariedah had eventually agreed with approaching Nombuso – saying we can only ask, but that we must also respect the directives within each cell. Both she and Jabu have stated that their price would be ANC membership for me. I knew of some whites who were members of course – the banned and exiled couple Ray Alexander and Jack Simons had been the first, but to me it had still felt a huge ask. I had seen front-page pictures of victims of bomb attacks, as well as local collaborators sitting husked and burnt, a charred tyre dropping their dead shoulders away from their blackened heads.
Of course, as they’d pointed out to me, there were no reciprocated pictures of people ‘slipping’ in white interrogation showers or else being shot by police or army. Censorship of the press was heavy and unilateral, Fariedah telling me that the ANC would always firmly oppose press censorship, should they eventually come to power.
What had finally persuaded me was the realization that I was already so deep in trouble a further step may not make that much difference – that, and the constantly recurring image of a sharp, smooth and deadly unmarked bullet.
Now, however, Jabu swings into the parking lot of Nombuso’s college residence. Keep focused on the immediate steps in the moment, van Deventer, I tell myself as I clip on Jacky’s lead.
Fariedah has also promised me residence within a safe house of someone I knew, from where I could try and contact Dan, should I be able to get our Box back. A shadowy existence, but at least something – and perhaps we could get rich on it, as Dan hoped. (But we would presumably only be able to enjoy such riches should we end up leaving the land of our birth?)
Hard choices and huge moves beckon terrifyingly from the future, should I be able to stay free. Now, however, we open our doors in a quiet parking lot.
Fariedah turns to me from the front seat. “You can only take the dog if it’s dead quiet.”
I nod; relieved they’d allowed her in the car initially, as she was obviously not a ‘racist’ dog, unlike many white people’s pets. Jacky’s retriever genes seemed to know no race or creed.