The Eternal Audience of One

by Rémy Ngamije

  Fifteen minutes later, Tendai let Séraphin know that the warden had summoned him. The march to the warden’s apartment on the top floor of Sobukwe House brought anxious moisture to Séraphin’s armpits.

  What could the punishment be?

  Maybe suspension. Or explusion. Or even if he was permitted to remain in the university, maybe his transcript would be marked with some footnote that would forever scar his employment opportunities. The more he thought about the possible consequences of the confrontation, the more he regretted having slapped Dale.

  “Well, fuck, that as a dumbass move,” said a Séraphin.

  The warden, a diminutive man with coke bottle glasses and a bald head, was a mask of concentration, busy scribbling a note when Séraphin walked into his tidy study. The walls were lined with full bookshelves and the desk had some books stacked neatly on it, bookmarks and colourful labels sandwiched at places worthy of more intimate return visits. Tendai nodded Séraphin into a chair at a coffee table in front of the warden’s desk before sitting down as well. When the warden had completed his writing he came to sit in a chair across from Séraphin. Séraphin’s calm demeanour belied the embarrassment in which he stewed internally.

  “So, you’re Séraphin,” said the warden. “From Windhoek. I hear that’s an important fact to you.” The warden’s voice sounded like a duck whistle buoyed with a thick Zambian accent. Séraphin’s eyebrows shot up again. He saw Tendai shake his head slightly. “You’re the one trying to cause trouble in my otherwise peaceful house. What’s this business of slapping students whose parents have the caprice to annoy me and the capacity to make your life here a living hell?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” It was all Séraphin could think of saying.

  “Are you?” The warden’s eyes searched Séraphin’s face. “No, I can see you are not.”

  Séraphin remained quiet. “Tendai has given me a thorough briefing on the matter. He tells me your conduct was incited by a certain slur.”

  “He called me Sarafina.” The warden looked at Séraphin without blinking. Séraphin looked down at his feet. And then he said, “Sir.”

  “I see.” The warden looked past Séraphin for a while and then said, “Tell me, were you offended by this?”

  Séraphin and the warden locked eyes. “No, not really, sir. But it was the principle.”

  “The principle,” said the warden, tasting the word. “I’m sure you will be given ample time in the future to consider which principles are worthy of action and which are not. I sincerely hope words that have no power to define you, words that say more about the speaker than they do about those they are spoken to, will not be the things that rule you.” The warden paused. Then he said, “It says on your admission record you’re a Remms Undergraduate Scholar— one of the essay writers. That means you have something inside that head of yours. Something that warranted this good university saving your parents the costs of sending you here. Tell me, did you think about what you’d tell them if you were expelled, Séraphin?”

  “No, sir,” Séraphin said. He looked at the clean carpet beneath his sneakers, following a thread pattern to avoid being pierced by the warden’s questioning eyes.

  “And yet you had time to think of principles worthy of expulsion. The criteria used to choose Remms Scholars must have become lax of late.” The warden was silent a while longer and then he clapped his hands together. “A disciplinary hearing would be a poor start to the year, for me as the warden of this house and for you. I am certain that after speaking with Dale I can talk him out of causing a fuss over his abuse. But I still have a decision to make. And it is that you, Mr Turihamwe, should move. You can’t stay here.”

  “So I must leave and he gets to stay?” Séraphin’s retort was suddenly ablaze with anger.

  The warden turned to Tendai and said, “Our Mr Turihamwe is not good at listening, is he? I said he should move instead of leave the university altogether, a generosity which is not commensurate with his recklessness.” The warden turned back to Séraphin. “Yes. You’ll move to another residence. Tonight. I’ve already phoned the warden of Biko House. They have a room available. You’ll pack right away. Tendai will use my car to help you move your things.” He sighed. “Let’s hope Biko House is a better fit for you. To my knowledge there are no Dales there, although, I am sure with your temperament you might just unearth them. A word of advice, though, Séraphin.” He leaned forward in his chair as though offering the most intimate counsel. “You’d do well to learn when to hold your peace.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. But this is one black who won’t keep quiet.” The quip had slipped past Séraphin’s relief at not being expelled. It surprised both him and the warden.

  The warden smiled a smile without any humour in it. “In time you will,” he said. “You’ll be worn down. You’ll want friends, you’ll want to be invited to dinners, you’ll want to fit in, and then you’ll learn to keep quiet.” He sat back in his chair. “Do you know that they call Cape Town the Mother City, Séraphin?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Whose mother is it? Not ours. We are its unwanted children. You’ll learn to keep quiet and hope for its affections. Soon and very soon. Goodnight.” The warden stood up and went back to his writing.

  Tendai and Séraphin walked together without speaking until they reached Séraphin’s room. While he packed up his room Tendai stood jangling his keys.

  “I’m ready,” Séraphin said. It did not take much to return the room to its unappealing status quo ante.

  “Cool, let’s go,” Tendai said. “You might like Biko House.”

  “Why?”

  “For starters there are a lot of overly proud idiots there.”

  XVI

  Of the many afflictions that can ail the young and beautiful the worst one has to be boredom. Its duration, however short or long, is suffered through a symphony of sighs. The malady is rarely understood by parents.

  “Why don’t you play with your brothers?” they say, not under-standing that brothers, especially younger brothers, are not made from all of the things that the eldest brother, the first to jump over the pubic hurdle, now considers to be worthy of distraction. Expensive punk rock posters; the forbidden Marshall Mathers LP; high school parties; and the oft confiscated cellular phone – these are the things that are en vogue. Their absence is endured with sulks and pouts as miserable and as prolonged as the trench lines of the Great War. Fantastical backyard lands, once fertile and fun, are crater ridden by loneliness and wilful isolation. Even the occasional WWF-inspired fraternal roughhousing which could result in a broken bed or two when The Rock’s Elbow, The Undertaker’s Tombstone, and Steve Austin’s Stone Cold Stunner were dramatically re-enacted behind closed door vanishes into memory.

  Later on, in the world of the taxpayer and adult responsibilities and expectations, boredom is no longer boredom. The word is substituted for something more niche: ennui. It is boredom, fortified over calendar months and years. A chorus of curses announces the bland build-up of work on the horizon; its brontide is devoid of cheer; and its petrichor leaves the world smelling of routine disillusion and mundane activity.

  Between boredom, which is the abode of teenagers, and ennui, which is the natural habitat of anyone earning a salary, lies an equally dreaded middle kingdom: this the land of those who have missed out. Tenure in its eventlessness, even for the most fleeting of instances, is deemed unbearable. It breeds a special kind of fear, spread from one youth to another through exclusion rather than contact, distance rather than proximity, solitude instead of crowded company. FOMO, the infectious acronym of doom.

  Walking down from Remms to the Cape Town city bowl – how many times over the years had he done this walk? Séraphin had long since lost count – which was suspiring from the day’s shift at the economic grindstone, he could feel the itch to know what the rest of the world was up to. The cars in the evening traffic were so close they nosed each others’ rears like curious dogs trying to sniff out intimate det
ails about their furry company. Each passing car held someone focused on what lay just ahead of the bonnet. Where were all these people headed? What were they going to do when they arrived at home? What was everyone else in Cape Town doing? What did the night hold? So many people, so many possibilities. He felt much better thinking about meeting his friends.

  Séraphin always looked forward to the company on such nights. His friends were a seemingly endless well of follies. Tonight, after his long absence from Cape Town, he was certain he would hear some unbelievable stories. Andrew had said he was bringing a lady friend. For her sake Séraphin hoped she was not conservative. Their group had a way of spilling stories without worrying about other people’s sensitivities.

  He made his way into Long Street as dusk was falling. The street was relatively clean. Later on, the detritus of the city’s club scene would be strewn all over it. Now, though, before it grew into its notoriety, it was quaint. The curio shops were closed. The wooden, metal, ceramic, and textile art in their windows stood under soft, flattering lights. The wares seemed more exotic than they actually were and probably carried similarly outlandish price tags. Boutique fashion stores placed their signature pieces upon gaunt, eyeless mannequins. The Royale Eatery at the top of Long Street was filling up. Marvel, across the street, blared the jangling reggaeton tunes to an empty dance floor. In an hour or so, it would be packed with gyrating, grinding bodies. Next to Marvel, the steeple of the Central Methodist Church peered down the length of the street in pious recrimination.

  Séraphin passed the Long Street Café. It was already buzzing with activity. The prime seats on the narrow sidewalk were already occupied. The bay windows with high bar counters behind them had some parties perched on bar stools, sipping garish-coloured cocktails, surveying the pedestrians. Séraphin’s strut pulled a handful of stares and delicate sips as he passed by.

  “Did you scope the woman checking you out?”

  The many Séraphins had joined his march. This evening there were six of them. The one speaking turned back to look at the woman savouring her drink.

  “Yes, I did,” said Séraphin. He stopped to let a group of tourists go by. They walked past, clutching their black camera bags tightly. In their khaki shorts, which showed anaemic legs in need of a tan, they seemed ill-dressed for Long Street. Séraphin wondered if there was some international tourism body which decided khaki was the colour to wear when visiting Africa.

  “We should holler,” said the first Séraphin. He winked at her. She did not return his lascivious nictation.

  “No!” Séraphin resumed his walking.

  The Séraphins proceeded down Long Street, past The Dubliner, which had already started pumping its signature anthemic rock ballads. The first Séraphin hummed along to Chumbawumba’s “Tubthumping” as they passed the Green Street intersection towards their destination. The crowd thickened so that they were forced to separate and weave between oncoming foot traffic. In the sudden swell, a woman in a gold, flower-laced bodice and minuscule black skirt approached them. Her hair was dark and long, wavy, as though she had just stepped from a shower; the exposed toffee-coloured skin above her bouncy cleavage pulled all eyes in the near vicinity to it. Her high heels ended in sharp, dangerous points and only the finely tuned muscles in her ankles and toned legs stopped her from stepping at an unfortunate angle and snapping a tendon. Séraphin and the woman shared a look as the vector of their paths ran parallel past each other. As his strides took him past her he willed his neck muscles not to swing his head around.

  The first and second Séraphins stopped, slack-jawed, and watched the woman walk past. They had to skip-jog to catch up to the other four, who were managing to keep pace with the defiantly marching Séraphin.

  “So you’re not gon’ look?” asked the first.

  “Nope,” said Séraphin.

  “That gotta be jelly ’cause jam don’t shake like that!” The second Séraphin craned his neck to catch a last glimpse of the posterior.

  “Did you see those tits?” asked the first.

  “Good Lord, she’s been amply breast – sorry, blessed,” said the second.

  “Her cups runneth over.”

  “I want to swim in those Cs.”

  “And capsize in that cup size.”

  The third Séraphin spoke up. “Do you two ever hear yourselves?”

  “Yes,” replied the second. “We hear ourselves quite fine. We just don’t care if you hear us, that’s all.”

  “The misogyny is the tumour in your humour that renders the whole quite unpleasant,” said the third.

  “Well, excuse the fuck out of me, Mr Third Wave Feminism,” said the first. “Sorry we forgot to brush off your high horse for you today. We’re sorry to have your solo evening ride cancelled. You’ll just have to keep company with the rest of us.”

  “Unfortunately,” said the third.

  “So what happened back there?” asked the fourth Séraphin quietly. “No reaction out of you whatsoever, Séra.”

  “Pride,” said Séraphin. “Nothing else. Also, contrary to popular belief, I don’t chase everything in a skirt.”

  “They aren’t always in skirts,” said the second Séraphin. They all nodded solemnly.

  “Pride, huh,” said the fourth in a knowing voice.

  “I think he was too chickenshit,” said the first.

  “You know what?” said the second, winking at the first. “I think you’re right. Homeboy here is still reeling from Jasmyn-itis. He’s too hung up on her to, err, how do I say it, seek the warmth of other suns.”

  “On Jasmyn he is not hung,” said a fifth Séraphin. “And afraid he is not either. At least, not of that which you speak.”

  “So, Master Yoda,” asked the first, “what gives? That’s two prime pieces of ass we’ve walked past now.”

  The fifth looked at Séraphin who kept his eyes looking forward. “Time,” he said.

  “What?” asked the second.

  “Going on without pause it is,” said the fifth.

  “Huh?” the first looked at the others for a clearer answer.

  The sixth Séraphin, walking behind all of the others, breathed exasperatedly. “Fucking morons,” he said under his breath.

  The fourth said, “It’s starting to sink in.”

  “What?” asked the second. Annoyance nibbled at the edges of his voice.

  “This could be the last time we get to do this.”

  “There would always be a next year,” said the sixth. “This one, though, could actually be the last one.”

  “Where a start there is, an end there must be too,” said the fifth.

  The Séraphins were quiet after the fifth spoke. And then the second Séraphin said, “That’s it? He’s afraid that all of this will end?” He swept an arm towards Long Street. “But it was always going to end.”

  “Yes,” said the fifth. “But always later the end is, never sooner.”

  “And he’s scared,” said the sixth. The other five Séraphins turned to look at him. So rarely did the sixth speak that when he did it was an event, oftentimes an event of great cruelty.

  “Here we are,” said Séraphin.

  The stairs leading up to The Good Night were sandwiched between two street-level fashion boutiques. At the foot of the stairs sat a bouncer on a bar stool. His bulk was dressed in an ill-fitting black shirt and black denim with thick black boots. He was supposed to appear intimidating and, to some people, he was. But to the Séraphins he merely looked like a man who wanted to be somewhere else, doing something else. Séraphin and the bouncer knew each other in the way that the frequenters of a pub or club and the bartenders, waiters, and cleaners will come to be acquainted. They would clasp hands and touch shoulders and say, “What’s good, man?” without waiting for a response.

  “Long time,” said the bouncer, whose name was Tashinga.

  “Yeah, Tash,” said Séraphin, “long time.” Hands clapped, shoulders touched, hands patted backs. Séraphin spread his arms, prepar
ing to be frisked. Even though The Good Night was a half-restaurant, half-lounge hybrid, it deemed it necessary to ensure those who visited it were subjected to some sort of patting down. Or, rather, it would be more apt to say that black men’s front and back pockets were patted to make sure they were not carrying anything suspicious.

  “Nah,” said Tashinga, sitting back on his stool. “You’re cool.”

  “Well, that’s a huge disappointment,” said the first Séraphin.

  “What is?” asked Séraphin.

  “There’re actually going to let you go gently into the Good Night,” said the second.

  “There’s something almost sad in the absence of the discrimination,” said the third. “Almost.”

  “Only in Cape Town do you learn to miss the unmissable,” said the fourth.

  “Still,” said Séraphin, “it has its perks. I won’t lie, I missed this place.” He took a deep breath and walked up the stairs. “And tonight is going to be a good one. I can feel it.”

  XVII

  The Good Night was one of Long Street’s most popular cafés. In its most recent life it was leading the avant-garde hipsterism sweeping through Cape Town’s restaurant scene. The burgers were named after famous poems. Courage was needed to tackle the voluminous Invictus, while the Desiderata drowned in meats, cheeses, gherkins, tomatoes, and all manner of desired things. The Road Least Taken was a particular challenge to carnivores who doubted vegetarian burgers were every bit as filling and delicious as their meat variants, and the Still I Rise anchored anyone who attempted to finish it in one sitting to their chair.

  The restaurant’s burgers were hand-made, a method the clientele deemed to be a novel way of making burgers. The chips had been put on fierce diets so their skinny lengths would not be out of place on a Parisian runway if someone had slapped a pixie haircut and rouge on them. The menu design was filled with generous white space and slender sans serif fonts. The male baristas grew their moustaches into thick handlebars with sinister curls at their ends.