It was hard to imagine Grace as a little girl, skipping in the playground. Outside I heard Msizi’s laughter. Grace’s eyes met mine and she smiled.
‘If ever I write a book it will be about this place,’ she said. ‘About the children who grow up inside these walls. That is my story, a story of happiness. How happy I was the first time Msizi spoke. Do you remember, Siphiwe?’
I nodded. Msizi had been at the shelter for three months before he decided to speak. By then his wounds had healed and only the scars remained. The small circular ones on his arms where someone had stubbed out cigarettes, and the cuts on his face.
Grace said, ‘The first words he said were: I do not like cabbage.’
We both laughed. I remembered that day well. We had been eating dinner, all the children and the staff sitting around the two large tables in the dining room, and then out of the blue, Msizi spoke and everyone went very quiet, but then Grace got up and took his plate and scraped the cabbage on to Vuzi’s plate and gave Msizi an extra serving of pumpkin. She had wiped her eyes with her white napkin, when she thought that no one was watching.
‘He’s a brave one, Msizi,’ Grace said. ‘Just like you, Siphiwe.’
I never thought of myself as brave.
Grace glanced at me. ‘I remember the day you arrived too. Even then I could see you were a good boy. I knew you had a good heart.’
‘Do you remember all the children who lived here, Grace?’
‘Every one of them,’ she said. ‘I write letters to many of them. All over the country they are.’ She smiled, but it was a sad smile, as if tears were just under the surface and the smile was to hide them. ‘Whenever I look at these children, my heart fills up. It is through them that this country will grow strong again. They give me hope for the future, Siphiwe. This country is built on hope. Hope, and the prayers of mothers for their children.’
What Grace said about hope was true. We all hoped for a better future and I could imagine that mothers would be the ones whose hearts would be filled with hope that life would be better for their children. I’d like to think that this was the case, that despite our problems, this country was better off now than before. If you looked around the city, you’d spot the signs of hope. I thought about what Grace had said about writing a book. We all had a story to tell. It started the day we were born, but perhaps the starting point of my story was the day my brother had died to save my life. If Grace ever told her story, would she start here, at the shelter, with the children she had seen pass through it?
After we’d washed the dishes that night, Grace gave me a folded sheet of paper. It was a picture the little girl had drawn. She’d given it to the priest to give to me. It was a drawing of her and me. I knew, because someone had written my name under the tall stick figure and her name – Mpho – under the smaller one. She had drawn us standing together and on the picture we were holding hands. It was hard to tell for sure because little girls didn’t draw very clear pictures, but I liked it very much.
‘Thank you, Grace.’ I wanted to say more, but the words got stuck in my throat.
‘They will be well looked after,’ Grace said. ‘They will go to school. They will never go hungry again.’
I folded the picture and put it in the back of my Bible. Later, when the house was quiet, I sat with my book and Grace’s dictionary open on the kitchen table, while the crickets sang outside in the dark. I looked up words I didn’t understand and wrote them down to help me remember them. It was Grace’s doing. She gave me books to read. She didn’t believe in storybooks though. Fiction, she said, was nonsense. She’d given me a heavy book with a picture of Nelson Mandela on the front.
‘That is the book every South African must read.’
So, at night, after we had watched the news, I sat in the kitchen reading. Some nights, I only read a few pages, but I always made notes and then looked for the words in the dictionary, because that was the way to learn. This night I started with the word ‘ballistics’. It was as Adrian had said. I looked up ‘forensic’ and then read ten pages about Madiba before I remembered about Lucky and the conversation he’d had with Msizi. I went to get the Bible and searched through the Book of Judges for the story of Gideon. Lucky had got it wrong. Gideon was no great warrior. He was a coward who’d hidden to avoid his enemies. That Lucky was a show-off. All talk and nothing else. But despite that, I liked him.
Before I went to bed, I had another look at the picture Mpho had drawn. She had drawn us standing on a lawn – coloured green with a crayon. Behind us was a blue sky with a yellow circle in the top right-hand corner. She had drawn herself in a pink dress and she had drawn little red things in her hair, ribbons or beads. I would ask Lungile what gift I could buy for a little girl. Boys were easy, I’d go to the market and buy Thabang a ball or a toy car.
I turned on my side and my last thought, before I fell asleep, was about Grace. I could not tell her age. She wasn’t young, her eyes told you that. Not old either, because her skin was as smooth as a young girl’s. Her face was round and in the four years I had known her she had not aged at all. She had photos of her family in her room. I knew, because the night Msizi arrived, I had called her and when she opened the door I saw the photos. I didn’t mean to pry, I just saw them. Several photos of a young man wearing a suit and tie. If I were more like my brother, or more like Lucky, I would have asked her if that was her son, but I was too shy, and, in my opinion, people needed to keep some secrets.
Monday I went to work. I did not go to see Lucky that afternoon, but I saw the Nigerian in Market Street. I was walking down the street, passing the Palace of Bargains with its pink walls – a sign on the door stated that they had moved – when a minibus taxi slammed into the back of a car. Both drivers got out and started shouting at each other. Soon there was a crowd looking on and behind the accident traffic piled up and horns blew and angry shouting sounded from open windows.
That was when I saw the Nigerian standing in the crowd. I ducked, but he had spotted me and crossed the road to cut me off. I tried to slip away into a side street, but it didn’t work.
‘Boy,’ I heard him shout behind me.
I turned round, thinking it was better to face him here, with all the people about, although I knew he had stabbed Hope in front of lots of people. He came up to me. There was no sign of his knife, but he’d have it out quick enough if he needed it. Behind him was the short man with the bleached hair. He wore a red vest that showed off his muscular arms. He had a dragon tattooed on his shoulder.
‘Don’t run away from me,’ the Nigerian said when he reached me. ‘It is futile to run.’
Oil sparkled in his hair. His aftershave was sweet and strong. He wore the same shoes he wore the day he had stabbed Hope. Did this man only have one pair of shoes? I’d have thought a man who made money selling drugs would have more, that he would have a pair for every day of the week.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said to me. ‘The only people who need to be afraid are those who talk to the pigs. They need to be very afraid.’
‘I did not say anything,’ I said.
‘You remember that woman I stabbed, eh?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘What woman?’
His lips twitched and he muttered to his friend – it must have been in Nigerian, because I couldn’t understand a word. They both laughed. He laughed with his mouth wide open. He had gold in his front tooth.
‘That is good,’ he said. ‘You saw nothing. You are smart. Do you want a job?’
Why was it that these bad people all suddenly wanted to offer me work?
‘I have a job,’ I told him, but he didn’t seem to hear me.
‘I’m looking for a man named Lucky Mosweu,’ the Nigerian said. ‘You know where he is?’
I shook my head. My heart was beating fast. Had someone told him that I’d been asking questions about Lucky? Was he testing me?
‘I don’t know anyone by that name,’ I said and saw no change in his eyes.
‘Ask around,’ the Nige
rian said. ‘Maybe you can ask that woman selling the mangoes, ask her where her son is. You think you can do that?’
‘I can try. Why are you looking for him?’
‘He owes me money. That’s all. I just want to talk to him.’
I nodded and wanted very badly to get away from this man with the hard eyes, but he grabbed me by the shirt when I tried to pass him.
‘Just ask around, OK,’ he said. ‘There’s a reward for the man who brings me news on him. Two hundred rand.’
‘Two hundred?’ I pretended to be interested. It was not much for a man’s life.
‘Two hundred bucks if you find him and tell me.’
He slipped a roll of money from his pocket, and peeled off a note. He showed me the money. A two-hundred-rand note. It was brown and orange and had the head of a leopard on one side. I had not seen many of them before.
‘One of these,’ he said. ‘You tell your friends I pay well for information.’
He strolled down the street, swinging his shoulders like a movie star. I would have to be even more careful whenever I visited Lucky. If the Nigerian suspected something he’d have me followed. He could have someone watching me the way he was watching Hope.
The next morning I went to Pick n Pay to get Grace’s vegetables and to the butcher’s for chicken and stew meat. I didn’t have to tell the man working behind the counter what it was I wanted. Every Tuesday I bought the same thing. Mr Chang was a small man from China who had lived in Johannesburg for thirty years. He had been living here longer than I had been alive and despite that everyone still called him the China-man. Africa was like that, not easy on foreigners. Not easy on anyone, for that matter.
‘How are you today, Siphiwe?’ he asked, while he wrapped the meat in brown paper.
‘I am fine, Mr Chang. How are you today?’
He wiped his hands on his white apron. ‘I’m OK,’ he said. ‘It looks like it will be a hot day again. We can do with some rain.’
We always had the same conversation, unless it was winter, then he didn’t comment on the heat. I wondered if he ever missed China. I wanted to ask him, but before I could get the words together, he had turned to help another customer.
Back at the shelter, Grace immediately started working on the meat. I told her my thoughts about the China-man and other foreigners. How Africa was not keen to accept strangers.
‘That is true,’ Grace said. ‘Africa is not a place for soft people.’
Later I went to see Lucky and made sure that I wasn’t being followed by cutting through the market. I turned left and right and waited five minutes to see if anyone was after me. I didn’t spot anybody. Perhaps the Nigerian wasn’t following me after all. But I’d watch out for him. I didn’t like the way he suddenly came to ask me about Lucky.
I found Lucky with a girl – a different girl, not Flo. It was obvious that he was a ladies’ man, Lucky. He told me the girl’s name, but I’d forgotten it soon after she left.
‘You will not mention her to Flo?’ He grinned at me, but I could see he was worried.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I shall not say anything, I have already forgotten her name.’
‘Eich, I have that problem sometimes.’ He laughed. ‘That one, she’s just a friend. Flo is my special girl. Flo is very pretty, eh? Do you think she’s pretty, Siphiwe?’
‘She is,’ I said.
Lucky threw his head back and laughed again. I didn’t think it was funny.
‘How many girls know that you are hiding here in the cemetery?’ I asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The Nigerian is not going to stop looking for you. He’s offered a reward.’
‘How much?’
‘Two hundred rand,’ I said.
This time Lucky clapped his hands while he laughed.
‘Siphiwe,’ he said, ‘nobody will give me up for two hundred rand. Nobody.’
In the trees above the shack I heard the mynahs cackle. I thought about the white butterflies I had seen that day I bumped into Letswe. Were they now flying over another city? I glanced at Lucky who was standing with his nose almost touching the mirror, rubbing the back of his hand against his jaw.
‘Why are they after you?’ I asked.
‘They want their money back and I can’t pay them.’
‘You must get the money somehow,’ I said.
‘I’ll have to steal it,’ Lucky said, still staring at the mirror.
‘You do what you have to, but that man will come back and kill your mother. You must think about her.’
‘You can help me, Siphiwe.’ He sat back down on the bed. ‘I can get money. I can get lots of money.’
I frowned. He was just talking, showing off again.
‘Where is the Nigerian’s money?’ I asked.
He pointed at his clothes.
‘You spent it?’
He shrugged. ‘I needed new clothes.’
‘You couldn’t go to Pep Stores?’
‘Do not worry about the Nigerian, Siphiwe. I have a plan.’
Hearing that had me even more worried than before. I had a feeling that Lucky was heading for trouble. We drank another beer and I got ready to leave.
‘You must keep a lookout,’ I said.
‘I do. I am very careful.’
We shook hands.
‘Goodbye, my friend.’
‘I shall see you tomorrow, Lucky.’
Standing in the shadows of the trees, I looked back at the shack. From a distance you could not imagine anyone living there, it looked like a pile of rusted iron. I worried too much. Lucky would be OK. He wasn’t stupid. He had been hiding from the Nigerians for a long time. I stepped on a loose stone and almost lost my balance. After that I kept my head down so as not to step on anything else and I noticed, there at my feet amid the grass, that a black beetle had died and was lying with its legs in the air. Ants had found it and they were in a rush to move it, but there were too few of them. As I watched, more ants arrived. They must have some way of calling each other. I smiled at the idea of ants speaking some kind of secret language. Perhaps they would shout, like Grace did when dinner was ready.
You could spot Adrian anywhere, because he was so tall and white, with his blond hair and pale skin. I saw him in the market when I returned from my visit to Lucky. He was with the Zulu and two other cops, walking from stall to stall. None of them were wearing uniforms, but I knew they were cops, because they wore jackets, despite the heat. It was to hide their guns. They took their time, walking casually among the traders. The Zulu was talking to people, while Adrian looked over the crowd. I went round the outside of the market and slipped in between a vegetable seller’s stall and a table with candles, batteries and soap. It wasn’t long before I saw Adrian coming my way. I waited for him to get close before I whistled. He turned round, but didn’t spot me.
‘Adrian,’ I shouted, then ducked again. Even though he wasn’t wearing a uniform, I didn’t want people to see me talking to him. I moved in behind the stalls. The man and woman selling vegetables had shade-netting over their stall. The net was held up by two poles at the back and two at the front, and they had tied ropes to a tree and to a street sign, to hold up their poles. It was good to keep the sun off the vegetables. It was also good to hide behind if you didn’t want to be seen.
‘What are you doing here?’ I asked when Adrian reached me.
‘Looking for McCarthy Letswe,’ he said. ‘Did you see him again?’
‘No, and don’t say his name out loud, people will hear you.’ I looked at the vegetable stall’s owners. They paid no attention to us. They were keeping an eye on their vegetables. ‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘This is not a good place to talk.’
‘Why not?’ he asked, looking around. ‘You should stand up for yourself, Siphiwe. Don’t let people walk over you.’
Behind his back the crowd mulled about in the market and further down the street, I spotted a man who I knew worked for the Nigerians. He should not walk so proudly,
freely, so unafraid. Anger blossomed inside me. It made me think of my vegetable patch behind Grace’s kitchen, and of pumpkins. How you could plant a seed and let it be until spring, when it would suddenly dig itself out of the soil, shoot up, and the new shoots would grow and spread over the ground and grab hold of the other plants and strangle them until the whole vegetable patch was overgrown with pumpkins. It was like that with anger. It started so small.
‘Come,’ I said, ignoring what he’d said. It was easy for him to talk; he was strong; he was a policeman; he had a gun. We didn’t go far, just down the street and then left into a narrow alley that smelled of piss.
‘You can’t walk around the market like that asking after Letswe,’ I said. ‘Not around here. You’ll get killed. Letswe will shoot you, or he’ll send his men to kill you.’
‘He won’t do it in a place like this, in front of witnesses, Siphiwe. We know what we’re doing.’
‘There’s evil out there, Adrian,’ I said. ‘It lives in people’s hearts, not in their heads. They don’t think, not now, there are witnesses. They just do it and go home, and worry about witnesses later. Or they shoot the witnesses.’
‘I know about evil, Siphiwe,’ he said. ‘I’m a cop. I know how to deal with it.’
He was like Lucky, thinking he had all the answers. Thinking everything would work out as planned. Life was not like that. I knew that from experience, and I knew many people who would agree with me. A noise behind me had me glancing over my shoulder.
Three teenagers came down the alley, loudly talking to each other; one of them – a tall boy with Afro hair – kicked an empty beer can against the wall. They saw us and slowed down, eyeing us. I lowered my head and leaned against the wall. I recognised the tall one from the streets. He was trouble.
They kept coming, chins up now, eyeing me and muttering to each other. If I had been by myself I would have got out of their way fast; although they were just boys, three of them together like that would be looking to make trouble.
Adrian stepped forward into the street, deliberately blocking their path. Perhaps they had not seen him before, because he was standing in the alley half hidden. Or perhaps they did see him, but didn’t realise how big he was. They did now. He rolled his shoulders and tilted his head, glaring down at them without blinking. He looked as if he was getting ready for a fight.
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