Thato: Come on. How can one be a guest in his family’s home?
Bass (smiles): Guess you’re right. Maybe you’ll soon be doing the cooking!
[Thato nods in agreement and follows Solly.]
INT. – KITCHEN
Solly: So tell me more about your comedy show. Is it a one-man act?
Thato: I’ll be sharing the stage with three other guys from the north side. We’re from the same background and that means we share worldviews. That is why I came out here looking for the third blink.
Solly: The third blink? What’s that?
Thato: It means looking for insight beyond the obvious. This technique allows me to see humour in a serious picture, hear facts in trivia and taste the silent sweetness in something bitter.
Solly (confused): So, you want to take pictures and taste …
Thato: I’m saying that I am doing research for a major comedy gig. It’s called The Loudmouth Stage. It is one of the biggest platforms for aspiring comedians to gain recognition. They’re hosting it in Cape Town this year.
Solly: Ah boy. Why do research and prepare, when jokes today are always about questioning the motive of the chicken when it crosses the road and changing your name to something ridiculous every time you say “knock-knock”?
Thato (laughs): Seems you got some good material yourself, Solly! But I take my work very seriously. A lot of people think comedy is a simple art, but it’s not. You always need a fresh, witty and funny way to analyse current events and share them with your audience. So, to add variety to my material, I decided to come here for a fresh perspective, one that’s raw and real. I came here to give my work some kasi flavour. And, of course, to bond with you guys too.
[The old man starts to complain.]
Bass (O.S.): I hear your voices more than I hear the sound of cutlery. Let your actions speak louder than words. Bring the meal before my stomach gives up on that food.
Solly (sighs, embarrassed): Forgive the old man’s manners. He gets grumpy if his supper isn’t served by a certain time.
Brian: It’s cool. Let’s get to work. Where do you put your plates?
Cut to:
[Zoom shot of the clock on the wall. Hours go by as the hands of time spin quickly.]
Fade to:
INT. – FRUITS OF FAITH CHURCH – DAY
[The next day, Bass, Solly and Thato go to church together. The Fruits of Faith Catholic Church. One of Sebokeng’s many synagogues of worship, faith restoration, inspiration and motivation. It’s a small church that’s a few fundraisers away from having its own edifice of enlightenment but currently uses the Ntabankulu Primary’s school hall as its house of prayer on weekends and after school hours. Reverend Thebe is at the podium.]
Rev. Thebe: Yes, brothers and sisters. It’s time to change. It’s time to stop the killing. It’s time to stop the stealing and quit the drinking. Let’s be better husbands to our women and better parents to our children. Be a better person tomorrow by changing your ways today. You might have done what they say you did, but you’re not what they say you are. That’s right, you are only what God made you to be. So, believe me when I tell you that Jesus is Lord. God raised him from the dead. Let’s thank him for saving us with his precious blood. Let’s live for him from this day forth. Let him take control of life. Let’s praise Jesus, let’s praise the Lord! Come forward choir and let’s praise our redeemer. [The Clap and Tap choir takes its place next to the podium. The conductor gives them the key to a song that is most relevant to the day’s sermon. The choir follows him. They sing with angelic voices that create a soothing sound that reaches out and touches all the hearts in the room. The song has a deep, meaningful message, wrapping itself around the congregation with a holy rhythm that makes them feel closer to the Divine. Thato even feels a chill run down his spine when a young lady’s solo verse comes on. He turns to the guy on his left.]
Thato (enchanted): My goodness. Who is that girl?
Young man: That’s Pinky Zondi. She’s one of the lead singers. Talented, huh?
Thato (starring at her, dreamily): Very.
[And it is on this day that Thato hears gospel music like he has never heard it before, listening to the vocally gifted souls as they sing praises that sit comfortably on beats created by clear hand-clapping and tuneful foot-tapping.]
Fade to black
When the battery of his laptop died and the screen faded to black, Bandile locked eyes with an unfamiliar face in the reflection.
The 43-year-old playwright did not like what he saw. The man in the dark screen was untidy. He looked tired, dark rings encircling his eyes and wrinkles like the surface of the brain lining his forehead. He checked his watch. The number he saw displayed on the digital display was meaningless to him. His mind and body had long ago abandoned the 24-hour cycle of wakefulness and sleep. And when he did try to force himself to sleep, his mattress felt like a bed of nails.
He slammed the laptop shut and his mind began to wander. It drifted off to the large, white-walled corner office he used to have at the public broadcaster, where he commanded, mentored and coached a team of young writers. The team under his leadership turned out one hit show after the other. He imagined one of those bright, young faces that once looked to him with adoration enjoying that space now, sitting in the plush chair as one newbie after the other tried to impress with plot ideas. Instead of filling him with pride that someone he mentored might have taken his place, the image enraged him.
He scoffed. Now was not the best time to be an artist. Make-believe never really made money in Mzansi anyway. Non-fiction always had the lion’s share. Bandile was just one of the few that struck it lucky and made a small fortune.
He wondered what his life would have been like had he pursued a career as an accountant or engineer. He’d have a steady, high-paying job that he could hang up at the office door when he went home – not this monstrosity called the arts that stalks those who decide to take it on, no matter the time of day. He’d have enough to provide for his family. He resented how the turn in his fortunes meant that he was probably being out-earned by teachers – despite his double-storey house and fancy sports car.
He tried to stop it, but his mind continued to search itself for regrets – mistakes that would define his life as a failure. Even Kulani said that he was irrelevant. Not in so many words, but that’s what he meant when he said that wave has passed. Bandile rode it for a while but he fell off and had not been able to catch any of the next ones.
Five years ago, it had all been so different. Every day started with a smile and positive mind. He wore many hats in the literary arts world. Published author, blogger, columnist, poet and playwright. A jack of all trades. But his favourite cap was that of a screenwriter. Success was all around his life. Money, expensive cars, prestigious events, exotic holidays, swimming pools. And the alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.
He resented those things now. No wonder they call them “trappings”. His talent for weaving words that had people spellbound had also, unbeknown to him, been weaving a web to bind themselves, his hands – his artist’s brush. Those hands could create no more. He looked at them, his hands, his kamikaze hands. They were ashy, with long, dirty fingernails.
Once bound by their own success and unable to create, the hands, idle, became the Devil’s playground. He missed deadlines. He drank at work. Harassed the secretaries and interns. Cheated on Zoleka, his beloved, many, many times, far more than he cared to remember, far more than he could. He went on Twitter rants about how poor production quality by the studios that turned his scripts into films and shows was ruining his reputation – leaving those studios little choice but to refuse to work with him again.
“These hands,” he whispered to himself, as regret fell like a Tetris block on an open spot in his mind.
He remembered that those hands of his were wrapped around Zoleka’s neck two months earlier. The poor woman kicked and tried to scream for her life. She pleaded innocent when he accused her of ste
aling his ideas – a suspicion the psychosis planted in his head. He’d caught her several times on his laptop and couldn’t understand why, until the crazed actress in his head, Molly Shabalala, convinced him that she, Zoleka, was stealing his ideas and selling them to his rivals. Once he let her go and she took in a lungful of air, Zoleka told him, with hurt in her hoarse voice, that she was just checking on the progress of his latest affair. That’s when she pulled out her phone and called the police.
Bandile balled his hands and pushed the fists they created into his eyes. Regret, an elixir that the body creates, produces naturally. It pulsed its way through Bandile with every heartbeat.
He thought of Kulani, running behind him and cleaning up the messes that his hands created. He was still doing that now, after this mess with Molly.
Why? Bandile was puzzled. It can’t just be the money. Writing is a skill that everyone thinks they possess simply because the medium is among the primary means of human communication, especially after the literacy of the populace became a measure among sovereign-debt providers of a nation state’s sophistication. Writing words and story-telling differ, however. The latter predates the written word by tens of thousands of years. There must be, on any given day, 1,000 writers lined up at Kulani’s door, thinking they’re the next big thing, given his reputation. Any one of them could be the next Bandile.
But still, even after the mentally-afflicted author attacked Zoleka, Kulani somehow got him a chance at TV Networx to present Untitled. It was rejected. Kulani must have known it would be – a media merchant like him was in tune with what studios and broadcasters want. Still, he presented it.
Why? The questions lingered for long enough for Bandile to realise the Speedom was wearing off. He popped another pill into a glass and allowed himself to be entranced by the display of fireworks.
INT. – MOFOKENG RESIDENCE – DAY
[It is after church and the family is about to have a Sunday four colours feast. They are sitting around the kitchen table.]
Bass (eyes closed): … and for the food we are about to receive, we thank you Lord. Amen.
Thato and Solly: Amen.
[They all sit upright, dishing up.]
Bass: Right. Let’s eat, gentlemen. My stomach is starting to digest itself. Solly, pass the gravy please.
Solly (passing the gravy bowl): Here you go, Pa. (To Thato) So, bro, you mentioned that your sister called this morning …
Bass: Oh! How’s Maletsatsi doing?
Thato: Mel is doing alright. We call each other now and then.
Bass: I remember hearing something about her living in Australia now.
Thato: Yes. She’s been there for four years now. Maybe I could ask her to come and visit you guys the next time she’s in the country.
Solly: That would be great. And how was the church service for you?
Thato: The pastor was very uplifting, man. And the choir! Yoh, I’ve never heard singing like that. So rich and real. It really brings one closer to God.
Bass (laughs): Now that’s Clap and Tap, boys. But I wish you could have had the chance to hear my sister, the best singer I have ever known, Thato. Your mother was so good she could melt the coldest hearts and bring tears to the toughest eyes. She always got invited to the royal house to sing for the Chief’s guests.
Thato (smiles warmly): And I remember how she used to sing me to sleep when I was young.
Bass: You know, we used to win at local Clap and Tap music concerts. We would use the prize money to buy school clothes for members of the choir.
Thato: Tell me more about the Clap and Tap music, Uncle.
Bass (sighs, a reminiscent smile on his face): Well, Thato. Clap and Tap is another African art that time has been cruel to. It has slowly been erased from the books of history and only a few still hold the remaining pages. It is an indigenous genre that makes great use of the first instruments man discovered: the hands and feet. From what I know, it was born in the independent black churches of South Africa during the old days. This unique style of singing led to the establishment of various music groups in different denominations for the purpose of worship and recreation. It attracted many people and was later adopted by non-religious groups. Clap and Tap music was a great part of entertainment in the late ’60s and ’70s in the townships. It also played a vital role during the liberation struggle in the ’80s. See, political movements used to work with Clap and Tap choirs to sing about what was happening in the country because they knew that the old government and the police would not suspect a thing. They thought Clap and Tap choirs were just religious groups and therefore they posed no threat. So, while the others went to exile, we sang for salvation and freedom. Making perfectly timed beats from clapping our hands and tapping our feet.
Thato (impressed): Wow, that’s so cool. Makes me want to hear more Clap and Tap songs.
Solly: But how come you never told me all of this before today, dad?
Bass (sniggers): I guess it just never came up.
Fade to:
INT. – KITCHEN – MORNING
[It is Monday morning and the weather is grey and cloudy. Thato thinks it is perfect for an early jog. Solly has already left for work. Bass is in the kitchen making breakfast.]
Bass: Mshana! Mshana!
Thato (O.S.): Coming, Uncle.
[Thato emerges from the bedroom.]
Bass: Eh, mshana. I … (looking at Thato’s outfit) What’s this? Are you going somewhere?
Thato: Not really. I was just about to go for a quick run around the block. Want to come with?
Bass: No thank you, mshana. I did enough running for your freedom during apartheid. And I need to leave for work. Officer Mofokeng, our resident law enforcer, left at half past four to start chasing criminals.
Thato: Solly has taken an oath to serve and protect? Didn’t think he was the type to wear a badge.
Bass: Listen, before you start chasing the wind, stretch your legs a bit by going to Zondi’s spaza just six doors down. Get me today’s paper, milk and fresh bread.
Thato: Not a problem. I’ll go there now.
Bass: And another thing: I’m making supper this evening, so I could use a hand, if you don’t mind.
Thato: Sure. Anything else?
Bass: No. That’s it for now.
Thato: Okay. I’m off to the shop then. Talk later.
Fade out
Fade in
EXT. – ZONDI’S SPAZA – MORNING
[Thato follows his uncle’s directions and arrives at the spaza. He is surprised to find that the shopkeeper is Pinky, from the church choir.]
Pinky: Good morning. Welcome to Zondi’s Spaza. Can I get you anything?
Thato: Hello. May I have today’s paper, fresh milk, bread and an autograph? I saw you perform at church yesterday. You’re very talented.
Pinky (laughs): Thanks. You must be bra Bass’s nephew. Thato, right?
Thato: Correct. But how did you know?
Pinky (fetching the items he requested): I spoke with your cousin Solly yesterday and he mentioned that you are visiting them. (She passes him a plastic bag.) And here’s your bread, today’s newspaper and milk.
Thato: Thanks, Pinky. I’ll be on my way now.
Pinky: Wait a sec, stalker. Now how did you know my name?
Thato: Oh … I saw you on stage yesterday and asked the guy sitting next to me. And I must say again that you were amazing.
Pinky: Thank you.
Thato: And I could use a friend who could give me a tour around the hood.
Pinky: I’m sure you’ll find one soon enough.
Thato: How about you? And if you apply now for my friendship, I’ll hire you on the spot.
Pinky (laughs): Sure. Why not? But the tour will have to wait until I’m free.
Thato: Cool. I must go now. My uncle’s tea must be getting cold.
Pinky: Alright. And tell bra Bass and Solly I said hi.
Fade out
Nineteen
Memory Cul-De-Sac
>
BANDILE ENTERED THE house and leaned against the door as it closed behind him. That was it. He was a divorcee.
Sitting in separate rooms at her lawyer’s offices that afternoon, he and Zoleka had signed the papers to officially end their marriage uncontested. Zoleka, once she made up her mind, was a runaway train. Only a fool would stand in her way.
Other than his share of the costs of raising the twins, she wanted nothing from him in the divorce settlement. Not the house. Not the nice, fat, cash settlement he’d scrambled from the last of his dwindling savings and selling his sports car and downgrading to a jalopy. Nothing.
Prideful, she’d cut herself financially free of him.
There was only one change to the divorce settlement that she’d demanded on the day, after catching sight of Bandile. She wanted it written into the settlement that, before his weekly visitation rights kicked in, a psychiatrist was to examine her ex-husband and certify that he posed no danger to the twins.
He’d stepped off the railroad tracks and agreed to Zoleka’s change of terms.
The house felt emptier, even though she’d left three months prior. It was also a mess. Papers everywhere. Dirty dishes piled in the sink. The bedroom reeked of the unwashed heap of clothes Bandile wore in cycles, picking from among them the least smelly to change into every other day.
The king without a queen poured a glass of whiskey. He held it close as he ambled to the TV and put on a DVD. The screen flickered as a beautiful, young woman came into focus. She was turning around slowly, displaying to the camera every part of her sequinned wedding gown, with a high neck line, open back and vintage lace sleeves. It was a modern take on a classic.
Bandile hit the pause button at the moment he lifted Zoleka’s veil and looked into her big, doe-brown eyes, her best feature. He took a long, slow sip of the whiskey. The image frozen in time on the screen transported the older man to when he first met Zoleka at an African bookshop in Braamfontein, downtown Joburg.
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