Читать книгу After Tears - Niq Mhlongo - Страница 6

The concourse of Johannesburg Park Station was busy as always that Tuesday afternoon, but as I emerged from the stairs that led down to platform 15 I couldn’t help but see Uncle Nyawana, next to the Greyhound bus counter, flashing his dirty teeth at me. Standing next to him were three people, but I only recognised Dilika and Pelepele, his childhood friends.

Dilika had been my teacher at Progress High School. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to begin a sentence without saying “read my lips”, a phrase that had quickly become his nickname.

PP was a notorious carjacker in Soweto and his name alone carried terror in the township. His neck and both his arms were covered with grotesque tattoos of a praying mantis, a lion and a gun. He got them during his time in Sun City. He once served a seven-year stretch there and he always boasted that he was the leader of the feared prison gang the 26s. His story convinced a lot of people in the township as he had some big marks or scars on his cheeks, like awkward birthmarks, and he never told anyone how he got them.

As soon as he saw me, my uncle tucked his wooden crutches under his arms and limped towards me with a smile.

“I’m glad you finally arrived, my Advo. Good to see you, and welcome to Jozi maboneng, the place of lights,” he said, trying to hug me.

He smelled of a combination of sweat, booze and cigarettes.

“Look at you!” my uncle continued excitedly, “the Mother City has bathed you. You have gained complexion by spending all that time with the ngamlas and dushis. Yeah, you look handsome, my laaitie. All the girls ekasi will be yours.”

After twenty-seven gruelling hours trapped inside the crammed third-class carriage of the Shosholoza Meyl, I was exhausted and couldn’t say anything. All I could do was smile.

“Come on, meet my bra’s,” he pointed at his friends with his left crutch. “You know PP and Dilika already, but meet Zero here,” he said, pointing at the third guy with widely spaced teeth. “He lives in our back yard. He has erected a zozo there. It’s been about three months now. He’s a very nice guy.”

I immediately dropped one of my bags to shake the damp hand that Zero extended towards me. He wore a traditional Rolex.

“Nice meeting you, Zero,” I said, shaking hands with him. His squeeze was very hard, as if he were punishing me for something I had done wrong.

“We’ve been waiting for you since eleven, Advo,” started PP, as we walked to the parking lot along Rissik Street, “and for that you owe us a bottle of J&B.”

Very few people remembered or knew PP’s real name. I didn’t know it either, but it was easy to pick him out of a crowd because of the way he walked. Because of his gout, he stuck his chest out as if it were an arse and walked slowly without his heels touching the ground.

“Read my lips! That’s right, PP,” added Dilika unnecessarily, “we should be attending a stokvel party at Ndofaya. Advo must buy us ugologo so that we can get there already tipsy.”

“Hey, madoda! I told you that my laaitie was a student at the University of Cape Town, and not working there. Perhaps we can ask him for a case of J&B next year when he is already the biggest advocate in Msawawa,” said Uncle Nyawana protectively.

“Hey, bra Nyawana, read my lips! You must not underestimate the financial power of the students. They have big money from their bursaries and the National Student Financial Aid Scheme,” said Dilika with confidence. “When I was a student at Soweto College, there in Pimville in the early eighties, I used to save a lot of money from my Council of Churches bursary. Besides, Advo was my student at Progress High School and he has to pay me because I’m his good ex-thiza who taught him until he got a university exemption. If it wasn’t for me, he would have been isibotho, drinking mbamba, or a tsotsi, robbing people here ekasi.”

To stop them from arguing I bought a bottle of J&B whisky at the Dakar bottle store next to the parking lot.

As soon as Zero inserted the key into the ignition of PP’s BMW, “Shibobo” by TKZee blasted out from the giant speakers in the boot of the car. As the BMW sped away in the direction of Soweto, my uncle immediately opened the whisky bottle, poured a tot into the cap and swallowed.

“Ahhhh!” Uncle Nyawana opened his mouth wide and looked at the roof of the car as if to allow fresh air into his lungs. “One nine nine nine was a bit of a rough year, Advo, but this coming year of two gees belongs to us, me and you, Advo,” he whispered into my ear. His eyes were bloodshot. “We’ll be fucking rich. You’ll be an advocate and together we’ll sue Transnet for my lost leg, my laaitie. I’m telling you that we’ll win the case, as it was all because of their negligence that I lost it. I tell you, we’ll be rich, my Advo. Our days as part of the poor walking class of Mzansi will soon be over. We’re about to join the driving class, with stomachs made large by the Black Economic Empowerment. Yeah, we’ll be fucking rich. Stinking rich, Advo,” he repeated over and over again, as if the topic had somehow become trapped in his brain.

“I think so too, Uncle,” I said, without meaning it.

“Yeah. We’ll buy all the houses in our street and put up boom gates, like they do in the northern suburbs, so the thieves can fuck off,” he said, pointing randomly at the mine dump along the M1 South freeway. “But, no,” he corrected himself, “I’ll buy you a house in the posh suburb of Houghton because ngiyak’ncanywa, ntwana. I love you, my laaitie, and I want you to be Mandela’s neighbour and own a mansion with very high walls like all the rich people do. Then you can go around your house naked and your neighbours won’t complain or think you’re mad, like they would in the township, because they won’t be able to see you. We’ll also join the cigar club and all Mandela’s nieces will fight over you because you’ll be stinking rich. You’ll be the manager of my businesses and when I die you’ll take over, my Advo. We’ll buy a funeral parlour and make huge profits from the tenders we’ll get from the Department of Aids because people in Msawawa die of those worms every day.”

Everyone in the car laughed at my uncle’s dreams, but Zero’s laughter was derisive.

“If you’re black and you failed to get rich in the first year of our democracy, when Tata Mandela came to power, you must forget it, my bra,” said Zero. “The gravy train has already passed you by and, like me, you’ll live in poverty until your beard turns grey. The bridge between the stinking rich and the poor has been demolished. That is the harsh reality of our democracy.”

“Don’t listen to him, Advo. He wants you to lose hope. There are opportunities waiting for us in the township,” said PP, twisting his neck so that he could look in my direction. I was sitting with my uncle and Dilika in the back seat.

My uncle refilled the whisky cap and passed it over to Zero who was driving. My eyes kept shutting because I was tired, but no one seemed to notice as they were enjoying their whisky.

Dilika pulled my arm so that I could give him my attention.

“Read my lips, Advo, I’m glad that you have finished your law degree. Congratulations!”

“Thanks,” I said, tiredly.

“Good! But I want you to advise me on something very serious tomorrow, Advo. It concerns your law. I went to see this majiyane in town and he tells me that I have to pay him four clipa as a consultation fee. Bloody lawyer!” Dilika clicked his tongue in manufactured anger. “I wonder where he thinks I’ll raise four hundred bucks, because that’s huge zak. Read my lips, Advo, the cost of living has seriously become higher after these tears of apartheid. We teachers are still paid peanuts by our own black ANC government. That’s why I can’t even afford proper shoes,” he said, pointing at his izimbatata sandals. They were handmade from car tyres.

“Hey, my bra,” interrupted PP from the passenger seat, where he was smoking a cigarette. “Don’t say ‘we teachers’ because you were fired in August, remember? You’re unemployed just like me. You hear that? You and I are both abomahlalela.”

Dilika made no effort to defend himself. Instead, he creased his forehead and drank a tot of whisky straight from the bottle as Zero was still holding the cap.

“Arggh, bleksem! Don’t worry, nkalakatha, you’ll work again,” said Uncle Nyawana in a consolatory voice. “Advo will sort that one out for free when he becomes an advocate next year. Is that not so, my laaitie?” asked Uncle Nyawana, but he wasn’t expecting an answer from me.

“You’re right. That must be his first test as an advocate,” said Zero.

Everyone in the township knew Dilika had been dismissed from his teaching job because of his drinking problem. It had all started when I was at home during the winter break in June. Due to his laziness he’d asked me and two of his students that he had chosen from his standard ten class, to help him mark both his standard eight and nine mid-year biology exam scripts. Dilika had promised us a dozen ngudus if we finished the job in time.

The deal was concluded in a shebeen that we called The White House. Some of the scripts got lost in the tavern, but Dilika gave marks to the students nonetheless. This only became a problem when marks had been allocated, by mistake, to a student who had passed away before the exams were even written.

When the private investigators came to Dilika’s house, he was drunk and failed to provide an explanation why marks had been given to students whose papers hadn’t been marked, including the student that had passed away.

Dilika blamed his misfortune on the students he had selected from his class to help me mark the papers. He believed that since he hadn’t paid them for the job they might have alerted the authorities. Although I had also not been paid for the job, I escaped the blame because I was still in Cape Town when the investigations started.

As the BMW passed the new Gold Reef Casino, PP turned and looked at my uncle. “My bra, your mshana is fucking gifted upstairs,” he called out loudly, while drunkenly knocking his own head. “Yes, your nephew’s upstairs is sharp as a razor.”

“He inherited it from me,” said Uncle Nyawana. “Remember, I got position one in our standard two class esgele. It was 1971. There were no computers then, only typewriters.”

“Read my lips, my bra! I think you’re suffering from what intelligent whites call false memory syndrome, you’ve never been esgele,” teased Dilika. “How could this brilliant young man, who has conquered UCT, the great white man’s institution, be like you? If there is a person amongst us that should share his success, it’s me. I was his teacher.”

Dilika was right about my uncle. He had dropped out of school before I was even born. He had sworn to everyone at home that he would never work for white people and therefore there was no reason for him to be educated, but in actual fact we all knew that he was just too lazy to look for a real job.

“Don’t listen to Dilika, my Advo!” Uncle Nyawana said, smiling. “Let me tell you a secret. In our time we were only educated to speak Kaffirkaans. That’s the reason I was at the forefront of the 1976 Soweto uprising with Tsietsi Mashinini and others.”

We all laughed, but PP’s deep-throated laughter drowned everybody else’s. We knew that my uncle wasn’t telling the truth. I guess he was probably out in the township robbing people when the uprising occurred.

“Read my lips, these kids of today are lucky,” interrupted Dilika. “Just look at Advo! Young as he is, he’s already going to be an advocate.”

A wide smile spread to every corner of my uncle’s light-skinned face.

We were now in Chi and Zero turned into our street. We passed the Tsakani meat market which, as usual, was crowded with people roasting their meat, washing their expensive cars and drinking alcohol. From the open window of the BMW I could smell the appetising scent of braai in the air.

Next to the meat market was a beautiful pink house that, some five months earlier, had been an ordinary four-roomed township house belonging to a woman we called maMshangaan. It had been extended while I’d been away, and in addition to the high walls and the paved driveway, the house also had a satellite dish on its tiled roof. I concluded, without asking my uncle, that the owner had become a serious businesswoman, who no longer sold smiley and amanqina.

My uncle’s dog, Verwoerd, was sleeping under the apricot tree as the BMW entered our small, dusty driveway. Uncle Nyawana got out of the car first and immediately the dog jumped towards him and nuzzled his hand. But Verwoerd wasn’t impressed by my presence. As soon as I climbed out of the car to off-load my luggage, he gazed at me once with his jewelled eyes, then wrinkled his black lips up to show his fangs before he started barking.

“Hey, voetsek, Verwoerd! Uyabandlulula! You discriminate! This is my laaitie, you no longer remember him?” my uncle said, trying to silence his dog.