by Nick Wood
Jabu rummages in his car’s front hatch and throws a navy balaclava back at me. “Here,” he says, “this is less likely to stick out than your white face.”
I wonder what uses he has made of it as I pull the balaclava on. Jacky gives it the briefest of sniffs; she can always tell who I am.
“Right, let’s go,” says Jabu, stepping outside.
I feel like a thief as I follow Jabu and Fariedah from the parking lot towards the dorms, but no thief could ever have been seen with a wimpier dog. Jacky has taken a dislike to the new place, unsure of her bearings, perhaps afraid it’s en route to the kennels. Whatever the reason, she drags behind me, tail tucked under her belly, and I have to cluck to get her to move at all.
Jabu turns to look at me and I catch his expression from a lamp post near the parking notice. I stop clucking and give Jacky firm yanks until she comes more readily, with wounded reluctance. We head towards the stairwell of the building and wind our way up three flights of the terraced block, stepping aside once for a gaggle of young girls heading down, seemingly dressed for the night and a local jol.
Fariedah leads the way three flats along and knocks on 3*3 (the middle number is missing). I reflect briefly that I have become aware of a wider range of living places in the past couple of days than I have experienced previously in my entire life.
The door opens and I see the sullen, shaven girl from our previous visit. She is looking drawn and tired and is about to snap a comment, before her eyes dilate as she recognizes Fariedah.
“Doctor!”
“Sorry to disturb you, Nombuso, I know it’s almost eight, but we wanted to discuss something with you.”
“We?” She cranes her neck out of the doorway to look Jabu and I over. “What’s the umlungu doing here?” she asks, obviously not fooled by my balaclava.
“He’s a friend,” says Jabu.
“Really?” She asks, “He looks like a boer to me.”
“Not all boere are the same,” says Jabu, “even though most of them think we are.”
“Oh, you’re the male nurse from previously,” she says, pulling her head in again. “Okay, you can come in, but the dog had better not piss or kak in my flat.”
We step inside. Jacky and I are last in and I see it’s little more than a room with a bed, one chair, table and microwave on a shelf. There are packets of instant noodles, biltong and boerewors flavoured, and a few mugs, spoons and sachets of tea and coffee.
“Sorry I can’t offer you anything.” Nombuso sits and winces at the edge of her bed. She is wearing stiff and plain beige pyjamas. Jabu rolls up a sleeve on his right arm.
“I saw that wound earlier,” he says. “I guess you’ve not been able to see anyone about that?”
“It’s just a scratch, a flesh wound,” she says, but I see she is biting her lip.
“I am indeed a nurse,” says Jabu, “with physical health training and a First Aid box in my car. Mind if I take a look?”
She stares at me sullenly, “As long as the umlungu turns his back.”
I turn my back. Jacky strains on the lead behind me, I think to greet Nombuso, but I don’t turn around to check.
Jabu grunts. “Back in a minute.” I hear the door close, but stay fixed in position.
The door opens again and I see he has a first aid box under his arm.
Fariedah sits on the chair and I look at her sidelong while I wait. She is watching the procedure behind me with a straight and undaunted gaze, but flickers that gaze towards me as if aware I was looking at her. Sensitive.
She shivers and pulls a face at me as if she is watching something unpleasant. She’s funny, too.
“You can turn around now, Martin,” says Jabu, and I turn to see him washing his hands in a small basin in the corner of the room I’d not seen previously.
Nombuso is standing, her midriff rumpled and bulky, with a flash of white bandage still visible. Her bottom lip is bleeding but she has not made a sound.
Jabu turns to face us. “A good job, whoever did that. It looks fine – as you say, a graze, but a painful graze. It’ll take a week or two to heal properly, as long as you keep it clean. I have some, but do you have more pain-killers if needed?”
Nombuso nods, as if unsure she can speak properly.
Jabu gives her tablets and a mug of water. She tosses the tablet in her mouth and swallows.
Fariedah stands up and introduces us properly, then gives me a nod to go ahead.
“I have a patient I believe you know – Sibusiso Mchunu. I have reason to believe he has made off from Fort Napier Hospital recently with something of mine.”
Nombuso stares at me and says nothing. I find it disconcerting to notice that her lip still drips blood, albeit slowly.
I try again. “It’s a valuable piece of equipment. I need to have it back. I would also like to see how Sibusiso is doing. Can you please tell me where he is?”
Slowly, she shakes her head. I look across at Fariedah and then Jabu, silently asking for their help.
Fariedah gives a little shrug and steps forward: “Perhaps he can ask someone above you, if you’re afraid of compromising information?”
“Why should we help him?”
“He’s in trouble with the authorities too,” says Jabu. “He’s also in the process of joining us.”
Nombuso tosses her head with a slightly dismissive sneer and then stops. “Dr. van Deventer, hey?”
“Yes,” I confirm, puzzled.
“I’ll take you to someone then, who knows where Sibusiso is for sure,” she says, “...and that’s only because I remember him saying something nice about you. Although I –” (She pauses, as if for effect) “I still don’t trust you.”
“Oh good, thank you,” I’m very relieved.
“One condition...” she holds up her right finger.
Jacky is licking Nombuso’s bare left foot and she giggles, trying to keep looking stern.
“Yes?” I query, pulling Jacky back to heel.
“I’m taking you there alone on the back of my motorbike and to be sure you don’t see where we’re going, you’re going to have to wear your balaclava back to front.”
I feel weak and incredulous, “You can’t be serious?”
Jabu and Fariedah are already by the door and I can see they’re both trying not to smile.
Nombuso has moved over to open her wardrobe. “See you in five minutes down in the parking lot, Doctor.”
We let ourselves out and head down the dimly lit stairs, which smell surprisingly of disinfectant. Someone cleans here, not all is dirt and chaos, yet another subversion of my stereotypes. I feel as if my entire world is becoming huge, but unhinged, disconnected.
We reach Jabu’s car and he clicks it open. “What about Jacky?” I ask.
“I’ll take her for a day or two; my kids would love that, although Mariam may not.” He smiles, swinging his bulk a little on the front door and I realise how little I still really know about him. It has never really occurred to me to ask, up until now.
“Mariam is your wife?” I ask.
He nods at what must no doubt seem the obvious – but, to me, nothing is obvious anymore.
Fariedah stands in front of me. “A bit of advice, Martin. I’ve seen Nombuso on her bike. Hold on tight.” Thoughtful too; then the fear kicks in.
I hand Jabu the lead. Jacky nuzzles him –- she will love whoever feeds her, although she will miss me, but I have no intention of being away too long. “Can I call you when I’m done, about where to stay?” I ask him.
He nods. “Make sure it’s from a safe line though, they have your cell number for sure. I’d toss your cell if I were you.”
I’m a novice, completely out of my depth at this.
I grind the phone under my heel.
Just then, I hear the stifled roar of a motorbike and a black-clad rider emerges from what must have been a secure bike shed, off from a corner of the parking lot. There’s a screech of tyres, a burning smell, smoke and the rider soars
through to us on her back wheel, having pulled an outrageous wheelie.
My legs start to shake.
Jacky barks, freaked out by the display and I see a group of students around a nearby car turn to stare at us.
Nombuso drops her front wheel as she pulls up alongside us and holds another helmet out towards me. “When I shout ‘right’, you lean right. Same goes for left. Always lean the way I do, never the opposite. And, Doctor...”
I have taken the balaclava off, ready to turn it around. I look up at her visored face, too frightened to speak.
“Don’t touch me, okay? My ribs are hell – so hold onto the struts at the back of the bike here,” she indicates a small bar. “Touch me with your hands and I drop you off wherever we are. You find your own way home then, on foot – and it’s not a sweet white suburb we’ll be traveling through right now.”
I nod stiffly, hoping she will change her mind about the balaclava.
It’s hard to see her eyes behind the visor and in the dim light, but I have no doubt they do not waver. “Put it on then, but back to front, mind you.”
I see that the students from the nearby car are walking our way. I glance, panic-stricken at Fariedah. She’s watching me. Yes, and beautiful too.
Ag, come off it, van Deventer, there is no possible future together; it’s well known that SB agents wait outside bedroom doors, ready to strip bed sheets for Immorality Act evidence while licking their lips for a climax through keyholes.
Just put the fucking helmet on, you’re kak with women anyway – that, at least, is a given!
I can see nothing with navy blue wool in my eyes. Jabu, I think, takes the helmet from me and places it on my head, strapping it under my chin.
I hear Nombuso talking with the students in Zulu, but have no idea what they are saying. The world is both dark and scary.
Jabu lifts me under the arm and swings my leg onto the back of the pillion. Nombuso’s warmth is in front of me, but she shuffles forward a bit. Jabu helps me place my hands on the back strut.
I brace myself.
The bike growls and I can feel the rising power surging beneath me. I can only clamp my thighs as if I were riding a horse. She pops the clutch and the bike bucks and surges forward, my neck snaps back and I am only saved from falling off by the terrified rigidity in my braced arms.
I do not touch her, but I am glad she has moved forward.
I am wetting myself.
I cannot quite believe it, but we’ve finally come to a standstill.
Sobbing softly through stuffy wool, I place my feet down on either side, feeling the safety of a firm surface. My arms have frozen into place behind me and I can’t seem to remember how to open my hands. My shoulders ache deep across my back, but I’m mostly aware of my wet crotch. Please, God, may it not show through into my beige Chinos.
I hear voices and someone is alongside and massaging my arms, finally pulling my fingers off the bar behind me, one by one. Then they manoeuvre my left leg over the back of the bike and have to hold me up, my legs are shaking so much.
“Hayi, Nombuso,” I hear an admonishing voice, a female voice, but of a deep and gruff tone, “You’ve frightened this one so much he’s wet himself!”
Oh, shit.
Nombuso laughs and there’s a rapid exchange of Zulu, before I am led forward by the right arm and shoulder: “Mind the steps.” The second voice, although gruff, is perhaps kinder than Nombuso’s – whom I would have loved to certify, if I’d been a psychiatrist.
A knock and the creaking sound of a door opening. Even though my nose is covered by the tickly wool – and boy, how that balaclava tickled my nose the whole fucking journey – I smell a mixed scent of foods, both meat and vegetable.
“You can take off the helmet.” There’s a new woman’s voice, this one is strong, mature, commanding.
The woman next to me tries to undo the strap but I knock her hand away and start unbuckling it myself, despite my clumsy, chilled fingers. I need to take charge of this as much as I can, standing cross-legged to minimize any further views of the wet patch at the front of my trousers.
I drop the helmet rebelliously and tear off the balaclava.
A large woman stands cross-armed, anchored in her size and authority. At first I feel less fat and then I feel less secure, for she appears comfortable in her own body.
The room is well lit by a scattering of kerosene lamps.
“Sally Jones,” she says, offering me her hand, a slight smile creasing her lips.
“Ja right,” I say, ignoring her hand, “I believe you have something of mine.”
Her ghost of a smile materialises further, into a grin: “You are a direct man indeed, Doctor.”
I glance around me. It’s a basic home, one entrance room geared for sitting, three others apparently branching off, front and sides. I doubt it’s much bigger than the four rooms at most. There are pictures of ‘Sally’ and a man on the wall, sometimes alone, a few with a biggish group of children. The most recent looking photo across the room on the door to the right is of ‘Sally’, who is on her own. It’s a more solemn picture than the others, almost sad.
Nombuso is slouching down on one of the chairs, helmet hanging from her right hand, legs draped out in front of her, one boot on another chair. Having delivered me here, she now looks bored.
A woman steps past me, medium height, medium build and with neat medium length, corn-row plaits. There’s nothing medium or moderate about the kick she gives Nombuso’s offending foot, though. It swings off the chair and she’s up in a flash, snarling. They’re squaring up to each other, but the large woman – so-called Sally – is looking angry.
“Tcchhhaahhh!” She shouts, short and sharp. “Stop. You will wake my boy. Nombuso, show a little more respect for our guest, white though he is. Mandisa, wait for my word before you act on anything and everything, okay?”
“Sorry, Mamma,” says Mandisa, and I smile at ‘Sally’s’ brief flash of further irritation. Still, lots of women are called ‘mother’.
Nombuso goes to sit at the furthest chair but keeps a watchful eye on me. Mandisa refuses to sit, but leaves the house, muttering she will be outside for a smoke.
“Would you like a drink, Doctor – something hot – or cold – perhaps?”
“My Box,” I say, “That’s all I’ve come for.”
She shakes her head and looks at me with a levelled and discomfiting gaze for some moments. “Tell me, Doctor, when you met with Sibusiso, what did you see?”
“A depressed young man,” I say. “Perhaps with some PTSD, after suffering trauma at a protest march.”
She smiles and makes her way to the chair Nombuso had sprung from, sitting down gracefully: “Some of your kind now call it CTSD I believe – Continuous Traumatic Stress Disorder – given we are stressed all the time, by this illegitimate state.”
I feel uncomfortable and a little rude, standing up and looking down on her, “Yes, I’ve heard the term amongst some of the OASS psychologists.”
“But it takes you some time before you shift your words, perhaps?”
I sit opposite her. The woman intrigues me. “I’m cautious by nature, yes.”
She seems to spill over the chair with her body, yet is self-contained. Her brown eyes are somehow both warm and hard. When she leans forward, her words gain extra punching power. “Ah, but whose nature are we talking about here, Doctor? What is truly ‘yours’ – and what comes from all who have been before you, or indeed, what has been around you? You carry some demanding confidence here too, in my home, a white power confidence, despite the patch on your trousers.”
To my left Nombuso laughs, a short, sharp bark.
I do not break eye contact with my host.
“Smooth and clever words… oh woman who is scared to tell me her real name.”
Nombuso smiles, “And what do you think your name is, Doctor? Is it ‘Doctor’, which you wield like a weapon before you, is it a thoughtful or even an arbitrary label your paren
ts drop onto you – or is it what you wish to call yourself?”
“Yes, I’ll have some tea, please,” I hold my hand out, “My name is Martin; Martin van Deventer.”
She shakes my hand, firmly, powerfully. “Good to meet you Martin. I’m Sally – Sally Jones.”
Ja right, I think, but her grip is fleshy and firm, whatever her name is.
It hits me then. Here, my knowledge counts for little.
The more I’ve chased Sibusiso and my box, the less certain I’ve become.
Of anything.
Words do not come; I feel psychological models crack inside my head.
“Martin?” Mamma has stood up in front of me, solicitous in attitude, revealing what looks like genuine concern.
I smile at the irony; the state of my trousers is an irrelevance.
I stand, bow and kiss her hand.
She does not pull away.
When I leave, after a hot cup of rooibos tea, she gives me a cell, a mobile phone only for ‘emergency’ text use.
“Just in case,” she says.
I pocket the phone reluctantly, hoping never to feel it buzz or hear it ring.
Chapter 13
Sibusiso Comes Home
The trip home is shorter. From Maputo, we have a large speedboat, manned by two serious Chinese men with expensive looking clothes and phones, dark glasses and no conversation – at least not for us.
The taller one with a shaving shadow on his lip knows how to handle the boat, though. The shorter one watches his phone and barks orders, with the boat careering and swerving at a rapid speed, bouncing over the swell. I think it has a radar app linked to a military intelligence centre, but perhaps that’s just my fantasy.
At least this time I am not sick. There is not the slightest hint of a fishy smell on board. The only smell is the petrol we burn from the twin 120hp engines. I am propped between Xolile and Numbers where we sit at the back, being caught by the occasional spray from the bucking boat.
We sit and say little ourselves, because we are changed men.
It was the rail journey from Lusaka to Maputo that did it. We had time to kill and so we played with the EmPods the Chinese gave us in return. Small portable mind-reading devices that fit in the palm of your hand, with tiny clips and scalp nets that just cover Broca’s area, apparently. (‘Em’ stands for Empathy and also ‘M’ for Mind.)