Читать книгу Way Back Home - Niq Mhlongo - Страница 13

Chapter 9

Driving south along Oxford Road, Kimathi put on his favourite CD by the Branford Marsalis Trio, The Beauty­ful Ones Are Not Yet Born. He had bought it to console himself after his divorce from Anele. Since their split, which had happened about two years earlier, Kimathi had started to get treatment for bipolar disorder. It was this condition that had led to their separation in the first place. During several manic episodes, he had spent huge amounts on his credit cards on gambling and prostitutes, which had made his wife suspicious. When he became delusional and started having sleeping problems, Anele asked him to consult a doctor. However, before he’d had a chance to get properly diagnosed Anele had found him naked in their bedroom with their domestic worker, Moliehi. This was the main reason for their divorce. Although Kimathi pretended to have forgotten Anele, the screen in his mind was filled with her image each time he was drunk and craved sex.

It started to pelt with rain as Kimathi came to a stop at the Bolton Road traffic lights by the Engen garage and McDonald’s. The asphalt ahead of him shone, the headlights reflecting off the water on the road. The area exuded wealth and exclusivity during the day, but became something different at night because of the prostitutes. Kimathi watched with keen interest as his headlights picked up some women running towards the 14th Avenue bus shelter. He hungrily ogled one lady wearing a tiny dress as she tried to flag down a car coming from the opposite direction, savouring the shaking of her enormous behind.

Oxford Road was the only street in the country where Kimathi got an erection every time he drove along it. Just reading the graffiti got him horny. Good Lord, she looks younger than the Glenfiddich single malt Scotch in my bar, he thought as the sight of the lady’s huge ass brought on an erection. He put his left hand inside his trousers and twiddled the short hairs around his pubic space.

He was still admiring the lady’s assets when a car behind him hooted. Only then did Kimathi realise that the Bolton Road traffic lights were not working. As he drove slowly across the intersection, he saw what looked like an owl flying in front of him. It was as if the bird was guiding him home.

On the side of the road just before Cotswold Street, some prostitutes waved at Kimathi. They were standing at the bus stop next to the Nelson Mandela Children’s Foundation building. Although he was a regular customer, Kimathi had told himself that he would fight the temptation to buy an hour of passion with one of them. The previous night’s encounter with the two policemen and Lakeisha was still fresh in his mind. However, from his many emergency visits to Oxford Road, he knew that there were women there to suit every taste. He’d had unforgettable hours of passion with Zimbabwean, Swazi and Tanzanian goddesses. Tonight, he chose to look only at the familiar graffiti on the white wall of a law firm near 3rd Avenue. He read the words to himself as if they were new to him:

THE STREET OF 1000 WHORES

and below it:

WELCOME TO HORNYWOOD

and:

DRESSED TO FCUK

As Kimathi crossed Riviera Road, there was a roar of thunder, and blinding lightning interrupted his fantasies. However, that did not stop him from synchronising his lips to Branford Marsalis’s saxophone.

Immediately after joining the M1 South freeway, Kimathi heard a thump on the bonnet of the car. Thinking he had run something over, he reduced speed and was surprised and terrified to see a dead owl on the bonnet. Instinctively, he swerved the car over the yellow line, came to a stop and put on the hazard lights. His heart was pounding in his chest. Moments later the car’s headlamps brought a faceless, blurry figure into view. He could see the raindrops hitting the figure’s body and Kimathi watched as the figure looked up as if wondering why the rain was falling.

As the figure approached the car, Kimathi thought it was an old woman because of what looked like a walking stick in its hand.

Threads of lightning flashed across the sky as the figure knocked on the misted passenger window. Kimathi sat frozen inside the car, his lower lip quivering. Sud­denly there was complete darkness. Kimathi blinked for several seconds then tried to open his eyes as wide as possible to accustom them to the lack of light. As he did so, he heard the passenger door open and someone sat down on the seat beside him. The lights came on, and, to Kimathi’s utter astonishment, the owl flew off as if the lights had just resuscitated it. Slowly, the figure took off the white cloth that covered its head and part of its face. As it did this Kimathi noticed two owl feathers in its plaited hair and fear engulfed him. When he looked at the figure again he saw that it didn’t have a left eye. He fainted for a few seconds.

When Kimathi opened his eyes, there was a beautiful young woman sitting next to him. She wore a tight pink T-shirt and blue jeans that were completely dry, as if she hadn’t been out in the rain. Although his hands were shaking, her beauty immediately dispelled Kimathi’s fear. He smiled. Maybe I’m just drunk, he thought to himself as he read the inscription on her T-shirt: MR CHICKEN: GORGEOUS THIGHS & THICK JUICY BREASTS. The air in the car was suddenly laced with an expensive perfume. He was familiar with the smell – Anele’s favourite, Lancôme Trésor Midnight Rose, he thought.

“Why are you . . .?” He didn’t finish his sentence. “Sorry, never mind. Maybe I’ve had too much to drink and was imagining things.”

The woman smiled, but let the moment pass without responding to him. It was as if she had looked into his heart and read what was written on it – fear. Kima­thi rubbed his eyes to drive out the intoxication running riot in his brain. He suddenly remembered that he hadn’t taken his medication. While the woman watched him, he opened the cooler in the armrest and took out a Red Bull. Then he took three pills from a side pocket in the door and popped them into his mouth. He washed them down with the Red Bull and belched loudly.

“Eish! You gave me a hell of a fright,” he said, speaking like a man who had just bounced back from the brink of a nervous breakdown. “I thought I was witnessing a true vision of the apocalypse, the real Armageddon.”

“Sorry,” the woman said in a smooth voice.

“Where is a beautiful lady like you going in this rain and thunder? Or are you Indira the goddess of thunder and rain herself?”

“I’m on my way back home.”

“Way back home?” There was surprise in Kimathi’s voice. “Where are you coming from, beautiful lady?”

“Work.”

“Work?” he repeated, sounding irritated. “Show me that insensitive white bastard who is exploiting our black people at this time of our freedom by turning our hard-fought democracy into prison.”

Without a word, the woman pointed at the small print on her pink T-shirt. It read Malusi Nyoka Business Initiative.

“Oh, I see. Is Mr Nyoka your boss?”

The woman nodded.

“Mr Nyoka is a great man, isn’t he? I know him from exile,” Kimathi said in a more upbeat tone. “But why are you here on the freeway?”

“My transport didn’t fetch me and I was hoping to get a lift home.”

“Why are you not wet? I mean, you’ve been standing in the rain.”

When she didn’t reply, Kimathi glanced uncomfortably at the dashboard clock. It was already seventeen minutes past midnight. He started the engine.

“By the way, I’m Kimathi,” he said, giving her his hand to shake before withdrawing it quickly.

“I’m Senami.”

“So, were you planning to walk in the weather at this time of the night until you got a lift?” He paused and cleared his throat. “It’s not safe, you know that. Criminals will take advantage of you.”

“Well, I was just trying my luck.”

“Trying your luck?” he repeated. “Are you sure you’re not from Oxford Road?” Kimathi laughed at his own joke, but Senami didn’t join in. Embarrassed, Ki­ma­thi turned up the music to give himself time to recover from what he had just said.

“Where do you live, Senami?” Kimathi said eventually, having recovered from his embarrassment.

“Soweto. Protea North,” she answered without looking at him.

“Do you like jazz?”

“I don’t hate it.”

“The guy that is playing here is called Branford Marsalis and the album is called The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born.” He paused, trying to choose his next words carefully. “You know, Senami, ever since my wife and I divorced I have told myself that there are no more beautiful ladies around. But today I’m thinking differently.”

“What are you thinking?”

“That if some women were not as beautiful as you are, then the world would not go round.”

Kimathi opened the glove compartment and took out a box of Cohiba Behike cigars. He asked Senami to open it for him, and took out two cigars. He offered one to Senami, but she declined by shaking her head.

“It’s not a local one, you know. It’s a pure Cuban gem. Try it,” he insisted.

Her eyes warned him off and she shook her head vehemently.

Kimathi shrugged his shoulders and concentrated on the road. “Obviously you don’t smoke, I see.”

Silence fell as Kimathi thought of what to say next. Before he lit his cigar, he drew it to his nose and smelled it deeply. He was reluctant to light it, but felt obliged to do something – the silence in the car was unbearable. Taking the lighter from next to the cup holder between the seats, Kimathi lit the cigar. He reached for the window button and rolled it down a bit before puffing out the smoke with satisfaction. It seemed he had regained his air of superiority. Senami did not complain about the strong smell. They exchanged glances.

“It’s the first time I’m seeing a lady this beautiful in years,” Kimathi declared. “May I have the civilised enjoyment of accompanying you home? Otherwise I’ll never have peace with myself.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m telling the truth, Senami. With every fibre in my revolutionary bones, I swear I’m not lying,” Kimathi said, trying to impress her. “I think that I have already fallen in love with your smile, and I’m willing to go to hell with you.”

“Big mistake,” she answered.

“Why?”

“Because it’s bad to love someone you can’t have.” Her words sounded like a stern warning. “Besides, I don’t like politicians.”

“Listen, I don’t know what ideological horrors lurk in your mind right now, but may I ask why you don’t like politicians?” Kimathi asked, contentedly puffing on his cigar.

“They are greedy, and they broke my spirit,” Senami said sincerely, looking directly at Kimathi’s Adam’s apple. It was as if she was referring to it.

Kimathi laughed and stole a glance at a scar on Senami’s left cheek. It suggested to him the reason for her dislike of men and perhaps male politicians in particular.

“True. Your political associate today can be your jailer tomorrow, I know. But that’s the nature of politics. But let me tell you that it’s not only politicians who break people’s spirits. My ex-wife fractured my soul, and she didn’t even know what The Communist Manifesto looked like,” Kimathi said, searching Senami’s face for a hint of a smile. There was none.

“Maybe I hate politicians because a conversation with them means talking about their wealth. Our democracy has only taught them to speak in huge figures and about the property they own,” Senami said with some bitterness.

Kimathi hesitated before replying. “Oh, now I see. It is because of the guy you used to date that you think badly of politicians, isn’t it? I guess it’s true that one crazy bastard can make all beautiful women hate all the innocent guys,” he said, plumes of smoke issuing from his nostrils.

“Not really. It is because most politicians are corrupt, I guess.” Senami turned her face away from Kimathi as if trying to get away from the cigar smoke. “They learnt only one thing while on Robbers’ Island.” She paused and looked at Ki­ma­thi briefly. “How to steal. I think God created terribly flawed human beings when he created politicians, don’t you think? He must be blaming himself up there,” she concluded, and pointed at the roof of the car as if God was residing there.

Kimathi smiled to break the tension, but he felt a pang at the truth in Senami’s words. He was surprised at how challenging she was; it felt like he was being granted a free assessment of politics in South Africa.

By then they were nearing Southgate Mall.

“I’m really enjoying your views on politicians. You sound very wise for your age, I must say . . .” Kimathi paused and glanced at Senami, his small eyes shining with pleasure. “But you must understand that we are living in one of the most challenging moments in the history of this country. It is therefore important to learn to accept what you cannot change. As the true sons of this nation, we must be in charge. We must not be apologetic about it.”

Senami became silent again, as if digesting Kimathi’s pretentious and condescending words. She had not yet smiled or given him any other kind of encouragement.

“I know it may appear to you as if I’ve sold out my country because I drive this car and smoke only Cuban cigars. But the nature of the world today is such that we have to survive and make money. Even the staunchest communist would agree with me on this one: a hungry man is a hungry man. Our problems cannot be solved by reading Das Kapital. I have sweated to be in this position, and yet I’m still sweating.”

There was a frown of contempt on Senami’s face and distrust in her eyes. She twitched her nostrils and looked at Kimathi as if he had just farted. Kimathi changed the subject immediately.

“But why are you wasting your time and talent working for a fried chicken outlet? Is it because of the politician?” he teased.

“No,” she answered flatly.

“Why, then?” he insisted.

“I guess it’s because I live in another world.”

“What do you mean?” Kimathi looked at her briefly and drew in some cigar smoke.

“You and I might seem to live under the same sky, but I don’t think we share the same horizon,” Senami said with honesty.

“I still don’t get it,” Kimathi said. “Is it because you think I’m a politician and you’re a worker?”

“What if I told you that what you see in front of you today is just an illusion?” Senami didn’t wait for him to answer. “You know, my mother always used to tell me that there is another reality beyond what we choose to see with our eyes.”

“I’m really lost,” Kimathi acknowledged. “Can you put that in plain English?”

“Okay.” Senami closed her eyes and exhaled. “I am saying that you must ask yourself whether we are living in this world or in an illusion.”

It was about a quarter to one in the morning when they reached Protea North. Kimathi parked his car next to the house Senami had pointed out as her home. It was not far from the police station. Before she left the car, she gave him a friendly and light-hearted kiss as if she was acknowledging his courtesy. It took him by surprise.

“Thank you for bringing me home.”

“Senami,” he hesitated, “if you have nothing important to do . . .” He paused and tried to rephrase, “I mean, if the idea of spending a day with a lonely politician is not frightening to you, I should be glad to come and pick you up here at one in the afternoon tomorrow for lunch.”

He looked at Senami’s serious eyes. The scar below her left eye looked like a teardrop. Inwardly Kimathi was cursing himself for awkwardly advertising his loneliness to a virtual stranger. He was convinced that she would not accept his offer as she had unequivocally shown her abhorrence of men like him.

“Not a good idea.” She shook her head.

“Oh please, beautiful. Just one lunch! I just want to be with a beautiful person like you. I promise I won’t bore you with political talk.”

“Sometimes beauty can deceive you, allow you to ignore something about someone.” Senami smiled briefly. “Our eyes always choose to see what our hearts wish were true.”

“I’m a good man, and I’ll take care of you. I promise,” Kimathi pleaded, forcing a smile onto his face. “I’m also divorced, if that is important for you to know.”

“It is always the deeds that have goodness or badness in them, not the politician. But sometimes our eyes are liars because everything that seems real is merely part of the illusion.”

Kimathi looked at Senami, wondering how a young woman like her came upon such words.

“You are really profound, you know that. But please, I beg you, just one lunch.”

Senami looked at Kimathi and then gave him the answer he was dying to hear. “If you insist.”

“Is that a yes?”

The smile on Senami’s face burned Kimathi’s eyes with its beauty while his heart raced with excitement.

“But definitely not tomorrow,” she added.

“When is the right date?”

“Let me see.” Senami paused as if mentally calculating something. “Today is already Saturday and we are having a traditional unveiling. Monday will work for me.”

“What time is good for you on Monday?”

“Half past twelve,” she said with a smile.

Kimathi felt drawn to Senami’s beauty and intelligence and was convinced that if he could make a girl like her smile, then he was halfway up her legs. He did not remember ever having been so totally satisfied with a woman’s company. He opened the glove compartment and gave her his business card:

Mr Kimathi Fezile Tito

Master’s in Fine Arts, Underground People’s University of Siberia

Chairman, Mandulo Construction

There were cellphone and landline numbers on the back of the card. Senami looked at it briefly before opening the car door, then, like someone who didn’t want to make too much fuss, she quickly waved goodbye to Kimathi.

“It will be great to hear your voice again,” Kimathi said, smiling at her.

“Why? Were you auditioning me?” she asked jokingly as she stepped out of the car.

“I definitely was,” Kimathi winked and smiled, “and I am a hundred per cent sure that you have made it to the next round of Idols.”

“You better prepare your eyes for reality the next time we meet.”

From the curl of her smile, and the happiness in her voice, Kimathi inferred that indeed she was also looking forward to seeing him again.

“A looter continua, Mr Politician!” she shouted sarcastically, raising her fist.

As she walked up the small paved driveway towards the house, Kima­thi watched the movement of her hips and legs. She swayed suggestively as she walked.

“Yeah, a luta continua, comrade!” he exclaimed involuntarily, and raised his fist.

Kimathi watched Senami open the door to the house, and disappear inside. He felt like he had been deserted by someone he loved. At the same time he felt blessed and remade at the thought that they were going to see each other again soon. With sweet thoughts of Senami still in his mind, he drove home convinced that his ancestors were smiling down on him.