Читать книгу The Fall - Jen Thorpe - Страница 5

Hector

This time around I’m making it out alive. Things are different. There’s something in the energy of the movement, a conviction I’ve never felt before. I’ve changed too. I’m ready this time.

‘Nice tackies, Hector. You sure they’re white enough?’

My neighbour, Melusi, smirks at me over the joke of a fence between our two back-yard homes.

‘Can’t get there and look like I don’t mean business, can I? I need those fat government cats to take me seriously.’

‘Take yourself seriously – nobody trusts a man whose shoes or clothes are too clean.’

He’s laughing as he heads back into his ramshackle self-constructed house, but I keep washing my backup pair of white sneakers with corn starch. Protesting in clean clothes does something to silence Mom’s voice in my ear criticising me for protesting in the first place. Aunty Estere didn’t pay for those expensive clothes so you can destroy them in a protest, Bakhulule – polishing your tackies to look good on camera instead of working hard so you can buy your own shoes … tsek. Even in my imagination, she can never tell me she’s disappointed.

Mom wouldn’t even know how to live in this world now. She wouldn’t get it. These days you have to start a fire to get taken seriously. Though I guess that was the same in her time.

Melusi comes back from his house and offers me a lukewarm beer; I take it out of politeness and habit. With my first sip, I drift off into memory.

‘You know, Melusi, the first time I ever got involved in something like this, things seemed so much clearer. There were the good guys and there were the bad guys. There was a uniform that said which side you were on, or at least the colour of your skin told you. People were willing to die for what they believed in, but now—’

Melusi interrupts me, snort-laughing. ‘Hector, man, sometimes I don’t know whether you’re talking from your butt or your mouth because most times it’s just shit that comes out. You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. You’re a baby.’

Of course, he wouldn’t understand how I know. How could I expect him to? I try again.

‘I mean that it feels like people used to know why they were fighting for things, and now they just do it because it looks cool, or their friends are doing it, or they want the selfie. You know?’

‘Says the dude polishing a pair of canvas tackies so they’re whiter than the DA.’

We laugh, but it doesn’t reach my stomach. We sip our beers some more, me on a plastic garden chair, him leaning on one leg and kicking the dry ground where grass used to grow before the drought.

If Mom could see me now, she’d kick the shit out of me for renting this back-yard shanti when Estere’s giving me money that could cover a flat in the ’burbs. She wouldn’t understand that I’m trying to save up. I’ve got a good feeling that this time around I can make it out the other side, and it would be nice to have a bit of cash stashed away. For … something.

‘Hey, man, don’t kick that dust near my clean shoes. I’ve got to wear those tomorrow.’

‘Yes, Your Highness.’ Melusi bows. ‘I wouldn’t want to spoil your expensive Converses or dirty your palace.’

This place is no palace but I’ve seen worse. At least it has an inside toilet, not like our old place in Meriting. Stupid name for a township where the only merit was that most days the men were underground mining instead of above ground drinking.

‘Hey, Melusi, did I ever tell you about—’

‘Probably, you never seem to stop talking, my man. It’s from being around women too much. You don’t know the comfort of a quiet drink, or the silence between men.’

He’s joking, smile on his broad face, but he’s right. In our house, the drinks were loud and so were the men, and it was a bad combination for me but mostly for my mom. The men she chose were too noisy, took up too much space, so that when they fucked off out of our two-room shack it felt giant with the space they left. Sometimes we needed the space for recovery, sometimes just for grief. But whatever, I made it through, right? I was lucky.

Those times when it was just us two, she’d be on me like a rash nagging me about my homework and to tidy my room and to go out and get things from neighbours. She wanted me to be a better man, to get a good education. I’m doing it, but I wonder whether all that money she scrimped and saved was worth it.

‘Maybe you’re right, Melusi, maybe I do talk too much. Maybe this protest isn’t worth it.’

‘Do you expect me to believe that you believe that? You’re loving this, my bra. Loving it.’

Mom spent all that money on a Model C school so I could learn with the rich mine kids and have people say that I spoke well. She was so busy taking care of me that she didn’t take good enough care of herself.

I start polishing my tackies again, avoiding thinking any more about home and focusing on the job at hand.

‘Don’t worry, my bra, your shoes are right. If you get shot, I’ll come identify you by your Colgate-white tackies.’

‘This isn’t the old days, Melusi. Nobody gets shot at a university protest.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

I didn’t mean to sound condescending, and I’m glad he’s the type of person not to hold it against me. Politics isn’t Melusi’s thing anyway, and he’s got no plans to come to varsity, even if it were free. He didn’t finish school, and he’s got a stable job. He doesn’t see the point – or so he says.

As it is now, it would bankrupt him. You get into varsity for five minutes before you realise you’re out of your depth and out of pocket. Three years of Estere’s fancy high school and all of her money still didn’t equip me for that, or for the hidden costs. You think it’s fees and done, but then it’s photocopies, and printing, and student cards, and societies, and exam fees, and food, and residence keys and, before you know it, what sounded like a fortune feels like pocket change. I could ask Estere for more, but she’s done enough for me as it is. Plus, it’s not right, on principle.

Melusi’s still kicking the dust, staring at me buffing my shoes.

‘This morning the train station was packed with kids heading to protest.’

‘Today’s going to be a big day. The minister’s supposed to come and address us at campus. Should be lit.’

‘I just hope the students stay on campus and leave the station alone. Last week when he didn’t come they threw rubbish everywhere, and—’

‘They’re just trying to get attention.’

‘Well, maybe they should also take notice of who has to clean up after they get their attention and go home. Mtoti had to stay late at work to clean up their mess and then walk home in the dark.’

His normally warm voice has turned angry, and as we both imagine his girlfriend walk home along the field in the dark, I feel guilty. Melusi’s been working security at the train station for more than a decade, night shift. Mtoti works day shift as a cleaner.

‘Fuck, man, I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry. Do better. And stop swearing, man, it doesn’t suit you.’

I’ve started swearing too much, he’s right. My language is just something else for Mom and Estere to disapprove of. I didn’t teach you English so you could learn how to misuse it, Bakhulule. Sometimes I wonder what the point of learning English is – all it does is leave the power with the powerful.

‘Maybe he’ll come today and it’ll all be celebration instead of destruction for a change.’

He’s forgiven me already. It’s what I love about him.

‘Hope so, Melusi, hope so.’

‘Don’t start going crazy over there.’

‘Crazy? You’re the one who’s still listening to Mafikizolo in 2016.’

This time the laugh gets right down into my stomach. I’m glad to see Melusi’s warmth return to his eyes.

‘No more talking shit, Hector. You love studying as much as you love your own reflection, so just sort it out so you can study.’

He’s right again. Ever since I watched re-runs of L.A. Law on Bop TV with Mom, and then The Practice at Aunty Estere’s, I knew I wanted to be a lawyer. If I was going to keep getting into trouble, I wanted to know how to get myself out of it. A fair chance at justice seems like reason enough to keep this protest going, even if I know better than most that in the end it’s unlikely to matter anyway.

‘It’s all impermanent,’ I mumble without meaning to say it out loud.

‘What are you saying?’

‘Just thinking, man, daydreaming.’

‘Nice to be a student and sit here drinking beer all day and dreaming while others are slaving away at real jobs.’

‘Hey, man, we’re working too.’

‘I know, I know. So stop polishing your shoes while those students you’re supposedly leading are already at campus calling out the government.’

‘This government, hey, man! Lucky I’m studying law because that way I’ll never be without a job. They talk out of their arses for sure. If lips could fall off from lip service …’

‘Don’t get started again, man. I’ve heard it all before.’

‘But it’s like every time it’s the same type of person that sets the rest of us up to fall and die. Same type commanding the troops at Delville, same type commanding the bulldozers in the fifties, same type ordering students to get shot in the seventies, same type taking bribes from the French for arms, same type—’

‘Stop. Now you seriously don’t know what shit you’re talking. That stuff you learn in history is just half of the story. This government isn’t like the others. If you don’t think our lives are better—’

‘That’s not what I’m saying, man. I’m talking about the fact that politicians since time immemorial have been making the masses the same promises – a better life for all or whatever – and in all that business they forget to implement those promises, and it’s always the working class—’

Melusi interrupts me by throwing his bottle into the bin between our houses, hard. Hard enough for me to know I’ve crossed the line. It’s the age difference between us. We just can’t get past it.

‘Hector, I need to sleep and you’re going to be late for your big show if you keep sitting here ranting. Go now.’

‘I just want them to keep their promises.’

‘We all do, my bra, we all do.’

He closes his door before I can apologise again. I know he’ll have forgotten about it or forgiven me by tomorrow. Just because I’m younger, he thinks I’m naive, but I’m not; I’m committed. This time, things will be different. Not like last year or any of the others before it.

Twenty years since they wrote the Constitution and these leaders are still spinning the same line. Melusi got sold dreams in 1994, the year I was born, and I’m here for the refund. This time last year we thought we’d made progress – they said they’d review things, get back to us with an offer. Then they passed the buck to the universities, with no bucks to accompany it. Seems like they’ve got plenty of money for cops, though.

‘Hector!’

Melusi’s shouting at me through his door. I knew he’d forgive me.

‘Yo?’

‘Answer your damn phone!’

I’ve been so deep in thought, I haven’t heard my phone ringing. I must be going deaf from all the stun grenades they’ve thrown at us the last while. They don’t call them flashbangs for nothing. Three missed calls already and all Estere. Mom might not be watching the news, but Estere will be.

‘Hi, Aunty.’

She doesn’t falter at my fake casual voice.

‘Bakhulule Hector Dlamini, you better stop this behaviour at once. I don’t want to have to hear from everyone that my nephew is on television burning artwork.’

‘I’m only doing what’s needed.’

‘No, what’s needed is that you get your law degree and start acting like an adult. You’re not a boy any more, Hector.’

‘I need to do this so that more people get a chance at getting a degree. So more people can be like me and get this access …’

‘Well, you’re going to need that law degree because by the looks of things you and all your friends are going to end up in jail for arson.’

‘We have to burn things – it’s the only way to get taken seriously.’

‘Oh, you think this is serious? That anyone will give you a job when you are the face of this fake revolution?’

How does Estere know exactly how to get under my skin? It’s like she knew from the moment I was born.

‘A job is the last thing on my mind right now.’

‘It shouldn’t be – you’ll need a job to do the real work of fighting for the rights of people who don’t have access, who need help.’

‘Is that what you did? Sit back and watch? Because, from what Mom told me, you were just as happy to burn things in your day …’

I shouldn’t have said that. I can hear her sucking the air through her teeth and the sharp click of her tongue. I flinch, expecting the smack to the ears. When she speaks again, it is slow and commanding.

‘Bakhulule, that is not how you speak to your elders. Your mother did not raise you this way. Back then, things were different. Those were different times.’

She’s so wrong. These times are just the same.

‘Estere, sometimes it’s hard to see the truth in something unless you’re right in the middle of it. Trust me. What the journalists show you is only a small slice of what we’re going through. They’re just looking for the best photo of the angriest black guy they can find. It’s not all like that. Most of us are simply out there exercising our right to protest – a right that activists like you fought for us to have.’

I’m making her angrier but I can’t stop. She should be angry. I’m angry for all of us. I stand up, getting dust on my shoes as I stomp into my house, her disappointment making me even more determined to get back to campus and prove that this matters. I don’t know when all those old activists lost this feeling, this drive to make things better, but it hasn’t helped any of us that they’re chilling with their BEE ratings on the sunloungers of once-every-four-years political participation.

‘I hope you can hear my voice in that thick skull of yours. Stay off the news and don’t do anything stupid this week. Don’t get arrested. Because one thing you should be able to trust me on is that it’s not as glamorous as you think.’

So she’s thrown her struggle credentials in to silence me. Smooth move. Not much I can say to that. Her voice softens as I sigh.

‘Bakhulule, don’t let your decisions come back to haunt you.’

‘I don’t have a choice.’

‘You always have a choice.’

She doesn’t understand and her sigh is as large as a Nyala police van driving over my courage. But this time I won’t give up. People are relying on me. Sindiwe is relying on me.

‘Be careful.’

That’s her way of saying she loves me; she hangs up before I get the chance to say it back.

She needs to stop watching the news. The media, man. I don’t know whether to love or hate them. When those scary cops have their guns out, I couldn’t be happier to see a journalist – at least then you know the bullets are rubber. But other times they’re just waiting on the sidelines to take photos of the scariest-looking motherfucker, the stereotypical ‘angry black male’ whom they know they’ll make their money from, just like everyone else. The journalists allow everyone to think we’re crazy, but they’re the crazy ones. Numb to everything or living vicariously through us.

I put my backup pair of sneakers on the window ledge to dry and dust off the pair I’m wearing. I choose a white shirt, and my darkest blue jeans. Melusi’s right – I should be on campus by now. Only thing holding me back is these feelings I’m catching about the students I have to take care of. Sindiwe especially. I need to get my head straight.

There’s no turning back now. Asijiki.