The Eternal Audience of One

by Rémy Ngamije

  “Really, Drew,” Séraphin said quietly. “It’s a dumb joke.”

  “Fuck you and your dumb ass jokes.”

  “Individually or together?” asked the first Séraphin.

  “I think you’ll have to choose one,” said the second.

  “And then you’ll have to pray you can get it up.”

  Andrew stood up from his chair, face flushed, hands clenching and unclenching. Things were being added up in his head, and the sum total left the taste of gall in his mouth. His eyes darted from Silmary to Séraphin and back again, undecided about where to direct his anger. “Fuck both of you.”

  “You’re biting off more than you can chew, Andrew,” replied the second Séraphin. “Again.”

  “Guys,” Richard said, “chill.” He stood near the nearest to Séraphin. “This is so unnecessary.”

  “Really,” said James. “You’re being foolish.”

  “I don’t know, hey,” Bianca said in a hushed voice that was not hushed at all. “I kind of like awkward. Just me? Okay. Sorry.”

  Richard turned to Séraphin. “Dude, let it go. Please.”

  Séraphin took a deep breath. He turned to Richard. “I’m cool.” He turned to Andrew. “Drew, I’m sorry. That was my bad.”

  Andrew turned to Silmary. She tried to hold his gaze but failed. He looked down at her, silent, and then said, “Really? Him?”

  Something about the way Andrew asked his question, both pleading and resigned, made Bianca look from Séraphin to Silmary and back again.

  “Oh,” she said.

  She was about to say something else but then Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose as though his eyes were tired and said quietly, but not quietly enough:

  “Of all the black guys.”

  Godwin (“Eh! Eh!”), James (“Huh?”), and Yasseen (“What?”) sat up in their chairs. Adewale leaned back in his. He believed it was his manifest destiny not to ever be caught in the middle of a punch-up. Especially when he was dressed for everything else but combat. Bianca crossed her legs. Silmary kept her eyes on Séraphin. Everyone else looked on.

  “Rich,” Séraphin said, “you need to get your white boy.”

  “I have a name,” Andrew said turning to face Séraphin once more.

  “And I’ll use it when you start manifesting individual personality,” said Séraphin.

  Andrew threw himself at Séraphin.

  “Séra—”

  XXX

  Here is a brief treatise on men according to Bianca Fawzia Gabriels:

  BeeEffGee—HiLos_Of_E: 1) For the most part what we call men can be found in two natural states: boy-man and man-boy. The boy to man ratio is largely dependent on various life circumstances which shape them or the absence thereof. There is no escaping this grim reality. Any successful relationship with the male of the species is largely dependent upon the discovery of each individual’s configuration. Therein lies the problem: it is not easy to determine the content of the character, boy-man or man-boy. Time and all of its concomitant aches and bumps seem to be the only way to find out which is which.

  2) Men need to name things. To name is to own. And to own is manhood. So men name things. It’s preferable to all of the other things they could do to prove ownership: peeing on things (all of the time), scratching on things (all of the damn time), or marking things in blood (I volunteered at an abuse counselling centre so I don’t want to hear any shit about this).

  3) When two men are in close proximity to each other, their average intelligence drops at an exponential rate. Imagine, then, what happens when the houses of parliament, pubs, and bars, and golf clubs have full membership rosters. With the reduced intellect, they a) become boy-men and b) start naming things.

  4) Men are trash. Someday people will know this.

  5) With that said: Hello, everyone.

  Sans_Seraph: Well that’s as good an introduction as any other.

  JustSayYaz: How long have you been composing that piece, Bee?

  BeeEffGee: It’s been a while, Yaz. It’s like when you find a new word, when you’re hanging on the edge of conversations looking for an excuse to drop it.

  GodForTheWin: I just read that whole thing and I’m hurting all the way down to my soul.

  Sans_Seraph: Everyone, meet Bianca.

  RichDick: Is this one of your concubines?

  Sans_Seraph: Alas, she is lesbian.

  GodForTheWin: Full-time or part-time?

  BeeEffGee: All the days of the calendar.

  GodForTheWin: So you never dabble in men? Not even a little?

  BeeEffGee: A “little” is why I don’t dabble. The things I like don’t come in sizes within Mother Nature’s realm of imagination.

  JustSayYaz: Moer!

  RichDick: I’m not even going to try then. There are questions I don’t need answered.

  KentTouchThis: So she’s part of the group?

  Sans_Seraph: Yep. She is. Bee is good peoples. Yaz and I are taking her in from the cold wilds of law school.

  JustSayYaz: Translation: Coloured people are panda-scarce in law school right about now.

  Sans_Seraph: We’ve only made it because of the BWCs.

  BeeEffGee: BWCs?

  Sans_Seraph: I’ll explain later. Right now we need to talk about The Thing.

  AddyWale: How’re we gonna do The Thing with her around?

  KimJohnUn: I was going to ask the same thing.

  BeeEffGee: What thing?

  Sans_Seraph: Don’t you worry your little gatsby-eating head, Bee. It’ll all make sense later.

  KentTouchThis: Another question. Is there some sort of procedure for recruiting members or do we just spring new people on each other? And do we have to change the name for her supposed ladyship though? I kinda like it just the way it is.

  Sans_Seraph: To keep you happy we’ll keep the name.

  BeeEffGee: What name?

  AddyWale: The name of our merry band: The High Lords of Empireland.

  BeeEffGee: I see. Did you read Number 2 above?

  AddyWale: I did. That’s why The Thing is going to be so funny.

  BeeEffGee: I’m putting two and two together and I’m not liking where this is going. Do we have to make a blood pact or some shit like that?

  KimJohnUn: Hahaha. No. But it’s one of the things you stated in your exquisite thesis.

  BeeEffGee: Voetsek! I’m not fucking getting peed on!

  Sans_Seraph: Hahahahahahahaha!

  AddyWale: This is going to be fun.

  JustSayYaz: Hahahaha. Don’t worry, Bee. We aren’t some rugby jocks from a KZN school @KentTouchThis may or may not have attended. We’re civilised.

  KentTouchThis: I was told that it was all part of the initiation procedure!

  KimJohnUn: But you never asked why nobody else went through with that part, huh?

  KentTouchThis: I told you that shit in confidence, guys.

  BeeEffGee: Like I said, I’m not getting peed on!

  Sans_Seraph: Relax. We aren’t going to pee on you.

  BeeEffGee: Okay…then what is The Thing?

  Sans_Seraph—HiLos_Of_E: All will be revealed in due time, Lady Bee. High Lords. Council meeting soon.

  The High Lords and Lady of Empireland, listed in order of their membership and power ranking:

  Sérapin Turihamwe (24)—@Sans_Seraph, the Roamin’ Catholic—Sauce level: Supremos

  Bianca Fawzia Gabriels (25)—@BeeEffGee, the Bad Feminist—Sauce level: Unknown (possibly comparable to Séraphin’s)

  Godwin Moyo (24)—@GodForTheWin, the Foulmouth From Bulawayo—Sauce level: Master

  Richard Fletcher (24)—@RichDick, the Tall White Guy—Sauce Level: Master

  Mohammed Yasseen Ibrahim (24)—@JustSayYaz, the Quiet One—Sauce level: Captain

  Adewale Bolaji (25)—@Addywale, the Nigerian Sapeur—Sauce level: Captain

  James John Kimani (25)—@KimJohnUn, the We Gotta Go Home Guy—Sauce level: Rookie

  Andrew William Kent (26)—@KentTouchThis, The White Gu
y—Sauce level: Rookie

  The High Lords of Empireland were a motley crew of wet-eared, brash boys well on their way to being wet-eared, brash boy-men. With the exception of Bianca, they had all met at Biko House, at Remms. Séraphin met Godwin and Richard first. The morning after the Séraphin Smackdown he walked into the dining hall, collected his breakfast, and scanned the hall for a hospitable table. He spied a table on the far end of the hall. Only two people sitting at it. They looked young, like him. He made his way over. They nodded at each other in greeting.

  Séraphin said, “Séraphin.”

  Richard said, “Rich.”

  Godwin said, “You can call him Dick if you want and you can call me God.”

  “Godwin or Godfrey?”

  “Godwin,” Godwin said. “How d’you know?”

  “I just do. Just like how I know you can’t count your blessings in a room full of Zimbabweans,” said Séraphin, spooning cereal into his mouth. “There’ll always be five as a bare minimum.”

  Godwin and Richard had smiled. “Our people are unfortunately named sometimes.”

  “You haven’t met Rwandans then,” Séraphin said.

  “I was about to guess Congolese,” said Godwin. “Kigali or diaspora?”

  “Diaspora. Windhoek to be precise.” Godwin winced. “You know Windhoek,” said Séraphin. No question asked. Godwin’s reaction said it all.

  “All thirty-six degrees of bum-fuck nowhereness of it.”

  “Thirty-six? That’s soccer-playing weather, bro. We only start worrying when it hits forty-three.”

  “What school?” asked Richard.

  “St. Luke’s.”

  “I know that one. We played you in cricket once.”

  “St. George’s?” asked Séraphin.

  “Yeah.”

  “They’re letting anyone into Remms these days, aren’t they?”

  “Whoa! Easy with the hate, bro,” said Godwin.

  “Small world, huh?” said Richard.

  “Don’t say that,” said Séraphin. “I just got here.”

  After a few more spoonfuls of cereal and rumours of the promiscuity of Remms girls Yasseen joined their table for the same reason Séraphin had – it was the least crowded.

  “Twenty-six, twenty-seven, or twenty-eight?” asked Godwin after names and nationalities were passed around. Yasseen looked confused. “We’ve all seen the documentary, bro.”

  “Fuck that Ross Kemp guy,” Yasseen said.

  “So none of the above, then?”

  “You sound disappointed, Godwin,” said Séraphin.

  Yasseen laughed. “Don’t worry about that.” He changed the cadence of his accent. “In Cape Tee-ooown we don’t disappoint, we just point and shoot when you diss us, bru. This place will sommer deliver on all of your dreams but you must pray you wake up cause you don wanna wake up in a naai-mare, bru. You think they call this the Mother City? Nah, bru, this the Motherfucking City in the Worsten Cape. You gotta know your brus from your bras because you don want your brus dropping sister’s bra and you gotta know your okes from your pokes. You better lock up your mas before we jump in there and become ma se kinders.

  They were young, wet-eared, brash boys, the outer rings of their valence shells primed for friendship. The bond was easy. There would be one of Remms’s famous welcoming parties that night and they agreed to go together.

  Together, the First Four survived that blurry party-filled first week at Remms. In the four of them Idriss knew he had found steady clients until they graduated, or dropped out. He ferried the First Four all over Cape Town. Only Séraphin the Sober – as he was then known – can remember most of what happened in that week. The others nursed hangovers most of the time.

  A geography lesson and brief history of colonialism brought Adewale into the group. He was older, a year ahead. He was also the one who found out about the Séraphin Smackdown.

  “Man, that took some balls,” said Godwin. His estimation of Séraphin, then already high, practically topped the ceiling.

  Then came James. He shared their table at lunch once. He had not laughed so much in a long time. He decided to stay. The First Four became the Fast Five.

  Andrew was the last to join their party. Senior to most of them, privileged beyond their comprehension, sometimes cool, sometimes callous. They tolerated him. But Godwin made it clear the white boy quota was reached.

  That year they lived the Remms life. They woke each other up for lectures, they helped pull each other out of the Sauce, they survived the Angelicapocalypse, and together they pulled back the veneers of the city one club door rejection at a time, one frustrated taxi ride after another.

  In that year came a special night after they wrote their last exams, one of those Capetonian nights buzzing when the city lights dot the blackness of the night with their luminescence like some underwater scene. Most of Remms’s residences would close soon, and only students who had taken on extra summer courses would be permitted to remain. Godwin and Richard would head home together. Andrew would cruise the Mediterranean. James would fly back to Kenya. Adewale and Séraphin would remain in Cape Town. Yasseen would head back home, but he would be around and see the remaining two when he could. But before they all headed off in their separate directions, they would all have a week of the splendid nothingness only university campuses can provide. They put hours into Long Street. Even James put in a commendable shift.

  On their last night together they visited The Good Night, which had just opened. They hit Avec – before Romeo became a negotiated obstacle to them. From the door to the dance floor they danced. From the dance floor to the bar they danced. From the bar into the bathroom stalls they danced.

  Most club nights are not memorable, they blur into each other. But not that special night. It stuck, so much so that Séraphin could even reconstruct that evening’s playlist from memory and whenever he played it everyone would start talking about That Night At Avec. He called the playlist Halcyon Days For Hormones. It was full of Ludacris, Missy Elliot, the Black-Eyed Peas, T-Pain, Fergie, and David Guetta.

  When the club lights came on they were still buzzed. Long Street though, was winding down. Reluctantly, they called it a night and phoned Idriss.

  “My friend,” he said to Séraphin who was riding in the passenger seat, “I thought this time you were going to sleep in the club. I looked at the time and thought, Mon Dieu! It is already four o’clock. These boys have beds somewhere in Long Street.”

  “Well this isn’t the end,” said Andrew when they were dropped outside Biko House. “We’re sunrising.”

  “What?” Godwin was drunk but not enough to start engaging in white people shit. He told Andrew so.

  “Why must you always take it there?” Andrew asked. “Anyway, we’re doing this. You guys haven’t done it. Just wait here. I’ll be back.” He ran into the residence.

  “Let’s go to sleep,” said Richard. “It’s been fun.”

  “Nah,” said Séraphin. “Let’s do it. You’re all leaving in a few hours anyway. You have enough time to sleep on that bus ride. James, don’t shake your head at me. You won’t miss your flight. Promise.”

  Andrew returned from his room clutching a Ziploc bag. “Right,” he said, “let’s go and see a man about a ghost.”

  The chill which stalks the deep purple of the night made them shiver when they arrived at Remms Memorial. Each looked out at something different on the carpet of lights below while Andrew rolled and licked a thick, white joint into existence. Of the group, only he and Adewale had ever smoked before. They waited for him to light up. He passed it to Adewale. The two were the joint chiefs of staff and they instructed the others about what to do. “Small puffs,” said Adewale.

  Séraphin took the extraterrestrial finger hesitantly and pulled. He coughed a cloud and clutched at his diaphragm as he passed it on. The buzz hit like a southpaw punch.

  “What’s this Andrew?” asked Adewale as the instrument of illegality came around again.

  “
They call it Muay Thai,” Andrew replied.

  “That is a congruous name.” This made everyone laugh.

  Séraphin coughed after he took another puff.

  “Virgin lungs,” said Andrew.

  “Probably the only thing left on him that can be described so,” James said.

  Richard laughed. “Whoa! Shit’s really kicking in if James is firing shots like that.”

  “In the cool of night and heat of day, with toil and trouble, and God’s favour too, in this land I made and dreamed of empire.” Godwin was reading the words on the plinth. He giggled. “This dude made all of this with my help.” Again, the collective laughter without reason.

  “Isn’t he supposed to say something?” asked James. He looked up at the statue which looked over the campus that discrimination built.

  “It is what the legends say,” said Adewale.

  Remms remained silent.

  Séraphin felt his bladder wriggle. “Damn, I need to pee.” The others did too.

  Séraphin walked past Remms statue and as he did so he read the plaque and paused. “Fuck it,” he said. He walked to the front of the statue and unzipped his pants. He fumbled to locate the object of relief and when he found it he pulled it into the cold air. “Gonna go from legend to myth soon,” he said. He trickled a stream onto the bottom of the plinth. The others, also suddenly seized by the urge to urinate, decided to do the same.

  Séraphin, in front of the plaque, looked up at the statue.

  In this land I made and dreamed of empire.

  “Fuck your dream of empire!” Like a fisherman he leaned back. “Let’s see who gets the highest.” They all angled back. Richard’s height proved to be the deciding factor.

  “Too many inches on this guy,” said Godwin.

  They laughed. Long and hard.

  When they were done they sat back down on the benches and looked out at the sun-streaked eastern sky, slightly-pink, just-red, almost-gone-purple. When the sun rays came out properly, breaking through the early morning mist, it seemed to Séraphin as though Cape Town could not be more beautiful.

  “Too good to be true,” said Andrew.

  “Look,” said Séraphin. The sun was winching itself over the Hottentot’s Holland mountains. The day was starting. Cape Town was waking up. “Everything that the lie touches is our kingdom,” he said.