Читать книгу Dog Eat Dog - Niq Mhlongo - Страница 7

On Monday morning I stormed into the Financial Aid Office at the East Campus Senate House. I just couldn’t understand why I could not be granted some kind of financial assistance. The government was pumping large sums of money into the Universities for needy black students like myself. I deserved that money.

I had already made up my mind about what I was going to say to the secretary. I was going to tell her that I wanted to have a word with Jane. Jane was the first name of Dr Winterburn, who wrote me those three insensitive letters. I didn’t know her and I had never spoken to her before. I did not even know where her office was. All I knew was that if you want to get past a stubborn secretary to have a word with their lazy boss, you need to use the boss’s first name. That is the only way, to make them to think that you know their boss from somewhere or that you are in some way related to them. Otherwise the secretary will tell you that the boss is unavailable, or in some endless meeting. They will dismiss you even if the boss is available, but doesn’t want to be disturbed while surfing the Internet for child pornography.

I marched towards the counter, avoiding the three-metre-long queue. I had already told myself that I was not going to stand in that queue. Enough was enough. I had spent too long dusting those benches with my arse while waiting in vain for that bursary. I had nothing to lose. The decision not to grant me financial assistance had already been taken. I will show them today, I said to myself as I reached the counter.

As I expected, I was immediately subjected to a barrage of insults from a coloured secretary with a narrow forehead. She made sure that everyone inside the office could hear her.

‘Shoo! You know I thought they lie. But they were right to say that if you want to hide money from a black person, you must put it in writing,’ she said rubbing her temple with a yellow ballpoint pen.

There was some laughter from the students in the queue behind me.

‘What do you want in the university if you can not read?’ She looked at me with disdain. ‘Can’t you see what is written there?’ she said, pointing at the sign on the white wall.

Straight-faced, I slowly turned my head and read the sign.

STAND IN THE QUEUE AND WAIT FOR SOMEONE TO HELP YOU

I paused for rumination. I was seething with anger.

‘Bullshit! What does a bimbo like you think I want? Gold?’

I heard a sigh of awe from the other students in the queue.

‘Get out of this office at once!’ shouted the secretary.

‘Nice try. But you can only chase me out if this is your uncle’s office.’

‘This guy! Who the hell do you think you are to speak to me like that?’

Without thinking I answered. ‘I’m Jesus from heaven.’

The sound of laughter came from nearby. ‘Whoever you are, what makes you think you are more deserving than the rest of these people who are standing in line?’

The office became silent as all eyes were turned on me. I didn’t care; all I wanted was an explanation as to how on earth they thought I would raise the money to study without a bursary. Meanwhile my enemy had disappeared into the office next door to call her supervisor.

‘Is this the one, Rachel?’ asked the overweight woman, pointing to me as if I was a witch.

‘Ja Ms Steenkamp,’ replied the one with the narrow forehead.

Ms Steenkamp folded her arms boastfully, as if she was the Governor of the Reserve Bank. She shot me a shrewd look and raised her nose as if she was confronted with a disgusting township rubbish dump. Her malicious bloodshot eyes locked with mine as she pointed her short, fat forefinger at me and began in a commanding tone of voice.

‘Hey you! If you need to be helped in this office you need to behave like the other students. Do not storm in here like you are entering a butchery or supermarket.’

There was more laughter from everyone in the office. She paused and waited for the laughter to subside.

‘Haa! Just look at him! Do you think this is Cuba? Do you see Fidel Castro here? Do you think you can just get a free education without standing in the line like the others?’

Encouraged by the laughter as well as my silence, she continued:

‘You must act like a civilised person and apologise to Rachel for your apish behaviour. Then you must stand at the back of the line if you want to be helped in this office. Otherwise you will not receive any money from us,’ she said, dismissing me with a curt gesture using the back of her hand. It was a gesture that an angry owner uses to dismiss his troublesome dog.

I did not know what to say. My mind was clouded. I could not think properly. I tried to open my mouth to say something but my lips seemed tightly sealed, as if they were glued together.

With sudden energy I vented my anger, thumping the counter with a loud bang. Most of the files and papers that were on the counter fell down as a result. The coloured secretary Rachel and her overweight boss Ms Steenkamp lurched back, waiting to see what my next move would be. I began to swear, my voice building to a scream:

‘F-f-f-ffuu-ck!’

That was all I could think to say to her at that moment. The way everyone looked at me, I guess nobody had ever said such a swearword in that office before. A moment of silence fell. I had lost my temper. I didn’t care anymore.

‘Nne-ver, ee-ver, I mean never ever ee-ever speak to me like that. Do you f-ffucken understand me, you fat bitch?’

I have no idea where those words came from. Neither did I understand what they meant at the time. I didn’t even notice that two black security officers had been called and were standing right beside me. They were holding their knobkerries, but I couldn’t stop. The two security officers had arrived at the wrong time, when my anger was at its peak. I was not afraid of them, come what may.

‘Do y-you know who you are f-ffucking with?’ I moved back and forth like a heavyweight boxer who is ready to throw another punch. With my right fist I thumped hard on the counter. ‘I mean do you ugly fat ladies know who the f-ffuck I am? Do you want to lose your f-ffucken jobs because of what you have just f-ffucken said? Hhee?’

‘Ho! Ho! Please relax man. Insults are not worth it man. I understand you are angry,’ said the black security officer who was trying to calm me down. ‘But you are talking to ladies, remember?’

I turned to the security officer. ‘Just shut up! I’m not f-ffucken talking to you,’ I said, pointing my forefinger at him.

There wasn’t another word from him. I turned back to Ms Steenkamp.

‘Do you want to regret having seen me in this office today?’

I paused and looked at the two ladies as if I was waiting for an answer. They were bloody scared. I opened my eyes wide as if the two ladies had just insulted the president of the country. My aim was to frighten them into thinking that I was some big name. They must think I’m the son of their employer, although their employer is probably white, I convinced myself.

Everyone was watching me; I guess most of the people were trying to think where they might have seen me. Some of them must have thought for sure that I was the son of the Minister of Finance, or cousin of the President, or some important celebrity. But before I could vomit more insults, a white lady entered through the main door. She approached the counter, obviously surprised at the sight of the two security guards. Something in my enemies’ body language told me that somebody important had arrived.

‘My Gawd! What is going on here?’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m Dr Winterburn, the registrar in this office.’ She paused. ‘Is there some problem in this office I should know about?’

I felt that I had to answer her before anybody else took advantage of the situation. I summoned all my courage to dispel the anger that was already clouding my mind, and said as calmly as I could:

‘This lady here called me an ape when I came to see Registrar Winterburn, and I demand to lodge a formal complaint to her sup . . .’

Before I could finish my sentence the secretary with the narrow forehead interrupted me.

‘Ja. You think you’re clever mos. Say what you were saying before. Come on say it now. Tell her.’

‘Never shout and point at me like that,’ I warned her.

‘Let’s not be emotional and . . .’ said Dr Winterburn, looking at me.

‘Who’s emotional?’ I snapped.

‘I mean, it’s natural to be emotional and I understand how you feel,’ she said patronizingly.

Her attitude made my blood boil.

‘Listen here! Are you coming to take sides or have you taken them already?’

‘No no no. We don’t take sides in this office,’ she countered defensively. That’s where I wanted her, on the defensive. ‘I’m only trying to find out what happened because I’m the one in charge here. Please don’t misunderstand me.’

‘OK then. These two ladies insulted me by calling me an ape.’

The two secretaries hissed as I tried to explain, but Dr Winterburn shushed them.

‘Ms Steenkamp, is it true that you called this man an ape?’ she asked, trying hard to be fair.

Ms Steenkamp gave a little derisive laugh, her eyes blinking in disbelief. ‘No! Jeez! Good heavens!’ she exclaimed. ‘I did not call him an ape.’ She paused. ‘I was called by Rachel to come and talk to this guy who was forcing his way into the office instead of standing like the other students in the line and waiting for somebody to help him.’ She paused with her finger still pointing at the queue. ‘So I said to him he should stop his apish behavior. My God! I can’t believe this!’

Ms Steenkamp tried hard to make herself look more innocent.

‘You see! That’s what I don’t appreciate,’ I said, feigning horror. Like lightning, I flicked my eyes from Ms Steenkamp to Dr Winterburn. ‘And she is repeating it right in front of you, saying that my behaviour is apish. That is like saying that I was socialised with apes and I should be living in the mountains or the zoo. Is that what you see when you look at a black person like me?’

‘Bullshit! That is not true. I didn’t . . .’ said Rachel.

‘What did you say just now?’ I snapped again.

Silence fell while Dr Winterburn considered our statements. The look on her face told me that she was siding with me.

‘Rachel, what happened before you called Ms Steenkamp?’ enquired Dr Winterburn.

‘This gentleman came straight over to the counter and I had to tell him to go back to the end of the line. When he refused to do so I had to call Ms Steenkamp.’

Like a judge in a court of law, Dr Winterburn turned and faced me. ‘And why did you refuse to follow those procedural orders?’

‘Dr Winterburn, I know all about the procedures here.’I paused. ‘For me to make an appointment to see you in this office all I need to do is sign a form which is inside those files.’ I paused again and pointed at the files, which had been picked up off the floor by one of the security guards. ‘And not to stand in the queue with the other students.’

I paused and looked at Dr Winterburn. She was nodding in agreement. ‘I was coming to do just that when these two ladies here tried to embarrass me in front of all these students. This one even took the piss out of me by asking me what I was doing at university if I could not read the signs.’ I pointed at Rachel. ‘She said that without even greeting me properly, let alone asking me what I wanted like any civilised person would. That is not the way to treat people. They are here to help the students, not to insult us.’

‘He’s lying. Ask the officers. He’s the one who swore in this office!’ shouted Rachel.

None of the security officers came to her rescue. Maybe they were siding with their black brother. Rachel was breathing hard and her eyes were beginning to mist over with tears. Dr Winterburn turned and faced the two officers who were leaning on the counter, listening to everything that was being said.

‘Gentlemen, I think I can handle this little misunderstanding on my own.’

As soon as the two officers had left, Dr Winterburn invited Ms Steenkamp, Rachel, and myself into her office. She ushered us into the chairs and the three of us sat nervously in anticipation of her verdict, while secretly observing each other.

‘Sorry, I didn’t get your name,’ Dr Winterburn said, trying to address me in a conciliatory tone.

‘I’m Dingamanzi Makhedama Njomane,’ I answered.

My two enemies remained anxious and silent.

‘Mr Njomane, as you might have heard I am the one in charge here.’ She paused. ‘It’s against the policy of this institution as a whole to insult people, or rather to make people feel insulted. I take this opportunity to apologise to you on behalf of this office, and I hope my staff will do the same.’

The breath whooshed out of me in disbelief. I did not expect the matter to be concluded with such simplicity. Both my enemies looked at Dr Winterburn in disbelief and tried to mask their disappointment by remaining silent. But with a look that no one was likely to disobey, Dr Winterburn turned to the two ladies to elicit their apologies.

‘I’m sorry if you took my words to imply what you thought. It was not my intention to insult you,’ said Ms Steenkamp reluctantly.

‘I’m also sorry for the misunderstanding that happened between us. I hope you did not take it that bad. I did not mean what you imply,’ muttered Rachel quickly.

‘Okay. Thank you. You two can leave us now,’ ordered Dr Winterburn.

I watched my enemies leave the office with glee. But I knew that a mammoth battle was still ahead of me.

Without a word Dr Winterburn opened the top drawer in her desk and took out a diary. She hunched forward and removed her glasses, pushed her long bushy red hair backwards with her right hand, and then began to page through the diary with her long fingers. She groped in the same drawer again and took out a small brown bottle, from which she took two pills. She poured a glass of water from a carafe on the table, put the pills in her mouth and swallowed them with some water.

For about a minute Dr Winterburn scrawled something in her diary. I became mesmerised by the trick that age had played on her once fresh flesh. Although her body showed that she was still young, her face revealed wrinkles that were the result of the unstoppable wheel of time. I started to wonder if she still dated at her age. In my perverted thoughts I began asking myself if she enjoyed spreading her legs for ambitious gigolos to dance between. Looking at the thick make-up on her face, I concluded that she was that type who would share her nakedness with young white men, under the illusion that their pace between her thighs would keep her forever young.

I didn’t notice that Dr Winterburn had finished scrawling in her diary. I was stroking my chin in deep erotic thought when she closed it and spoke to me.

‘Okay Mr Njomane, what is it that you came to see me about?’

‘About the status of my bursary application.’

‘Do you have your student card with you?’ she asked as she reset her PC.

I reached for my wallet in the back pocket of my jeans, took out the card and gave it to her. She typed something into her PC and drew back, waiting for the information to appear. By that time I had begun to sweat. Dr Winterburn leaned forward and folded her arms. She exhaled heavily and leaned backwards again.

‘I thought that you already knew the outcome of your appeal, Mr Njomane. I wrote to you early last week. Haven’t you received my letter yet?’

‘Yes, I received your letter, but the grounds on which I was refused the bursary are Greek to me. I came here to make an appointment to talk to you about it.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, her face flushing with astonishment. ‘Are you here to tell us what to do and what not to do?’ She looked at me and hunched forward again as if she was talking to a deaf person. ‘Look here, Mr Njomane; in this office we have our own criteria for selecting students for bursaries. Remember we would love to sponsor everyone who asks for help, but we are circumscribed by the funds we have at our disposal. There are quite a number of students whose situation is really pathetic and we have decided that in your case at least it is not that bad.’

Dr Winterburn hunched forward again and looked at me. She balanced her elbows on the table. I did not say a word.

‘What I suggest you do is to apply for outside donors. You can get a list of addresses from Rachel, our secretary.’

I bit my lip in disappointment.

‘To begin with, Dr Winterburn, I came here to understand what you actually mean by saying that my situation is not that bad. It seems that you people in this office have got the wrong end of the stick about my situation and . . .’

‘What’s your point, Mr Njomane?’ she interrupted.

‘My point is this. I got an exemption two years ago and I have been sitting at home since then waiting for the opportunity to study at this institution. I applied to the Faculty of Arts and got admitted to do my BA. It’s my wish that this office grant me a bursary so that I can study, graduate, get a better job and assist my poverty-stricken family. My father has passed away and my mother is a pensioner and single-handedly supports nine members of our family. There’s nowhere I can go for help except this office.’

I took out my brown envelope. It contained my father’s death certificate and my mother’s pension slip as well as the three affidavits.

‘This is the second time that I have submitted this evidence and I wonder if the committee took any notice of it when it reached its decision,’ I added as I pushed the documents towards her.

Dr Winterburn took the documents and a pause followed as she pretended to be studying them closely.

‘That affidavit shows that twelve family members live crammed into a four-roomed matchbox house in Soweto.’

She started looking for something in the bottom drawer. Her other hand was rubbing at the corners of her bloodshot eyes. I knew she was looking for her glasses. From where I was sitting I could see them; they were buried under an avalanche of documents that were lying on her desk, including some of my documents. She found them without too much effort, put them on and began to study my documents.

‘Mmm, so how does your family survive on your mother’s three hundred and fifty rand pension?’ she asked, pushing my documents away.

‘It’s really difficult. Our electricity and water have been cut off because the bills have not been paid for the past two years,’ I lied.

I was not ashamed that I lied. Living in this South Africa of ours you have to master the art of lying in order to survive. As she looked at me I hid my hands under the edge of the table so that she couldn’t see my gold-plated Pulsar watch, which I had bought the previous year at American Swiss.

I looked Dr Winterburn straight in the eye. With her left hand she pulled open the bottom drawer, took out a packet of Consulates and a lighter. Next to the carafe was an ashtray filled with butts and half-smoked cigarettes. She carefully balanced a cigarette between her lips, then paused and watched the yellow flame of the lighter flicker between her fingers.

‘This is your first time at this university, isn’t it?’

‘Yes ma’am,’ I answered.

She took two deep drags on her cigarette and then flicked the ash sharply into the ashtray. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said.