Читать книгу Way Back Home - Niq Mhlongo - Страница 6

Chapter 2

“Shut up! Shut up!”

Kimathi woke up from the nightmare screaming. It was already eleven, on a Sunday morning. He found himself sprawled on the bedroom floor of his Bassonia mansion. After rubbing his eyes several times, he became conscious of the fact that he was still fully clothed in his suit, shoes and tie. An empty whisky glass lay on the floor next to him, where he had obviously dropped it the night before.

This was the third time in a row that he’d had the same dream. Its terrifying detail had made him afraid to go to bed alone. Shit! No matter how strong you are, the memory of something frightening always comes back to you in a bad dream, he thought as he sat up. Not much of it made sense to him now. It had all happened more than two decades ago, while he was still in exile, and he could not even recall most of the faces, or what had happened to them.

Kimathi stood up and removed his tie, jacket and shoes. He staggered, aware that he was still drunk from the previous night’s binge at the Hyatt Regency Hotel in Rosebank. He couldn’t even remember what time he had arrived home. Around two or three in the morning, he thought as a burning tide of bile rose in his throat. With his hand on his mouth, he walked to the bathroom, feeling the cold tiles underfoot. At the sink, he closed his eyes and started retching and heaving repeatedly, but only a bitter, yellowish liquid came out. His head was heavy and felt ready to split open. Even when he drank water directly from the tap, the pounding in his head went on. He held on to the sink for support, and then remembered that he hadn’t taken his medication. The prescription said two tablets in the morning and three in the evening.

Lurching back to the bedroom, Kimathi opened the bottom drawer and took out two pills. After popping them in his mouth, he went back to the bathroom to wash them down. The headache did not stop, so he dragged his body to the bar, where he poured a double tot of Rémy Martin, hoping it would chase away the hangover. He swallowed the cognac in one go, studied the empty glass for a moment and then poured a second one. With the glass in his hand, he opened the front door and went outside.

His chest heaving with the freshness of morning life, Kimathi sat down on a white lounger next to the swimming pool. From a distance, he looked like a bull seal basking on the rocks of Duiker Island. He took a sip from his glass, put it down, and then rubbed his hands together. As he reclined in the chair and crossed his legs, he started to calculate mentally. What occupied his mind at that moment was no longer the nightmare. He was thinking about the afternoon meeting he would have the following day with Ludwe, the director-general of the Department of Public Works, and his business partners. Money is on its way, he thought. He smiled to himself and stroked his forearm.

The sound of a car in the driveway interrupted Kimathi’s thoughts. He craned his neck and saw his ex-wife’s silver Golf V pulling up. Anele was with their seven-year-old daughter, Zanu. He had not seen them in two months, and he smelled trouble. He and Anele had been separated for two years, and Anele now lived in Killarney, where she owned an apartment.

Kimathi picked up his glass, but by the time he had raised it to his lips Anele was standing in front of him. Looking at her, he felt she had put on weight. She was dressed in a black dress with white polka dots, embellished cat’s-eye sunglasses, black straw-wedge shoes and a gold starfish bangle. It was obvious to Ki­mathi that she had just come from church, as she carried a Bible in her left hand. He made no effort to rise and hug her, or even to shake hands.

“You have been avoiding my calls for the past two months,” Anele said, getting down to business immediately, a tone of urgency in her voice. “So I thought I should come personally to discuss Zanu’s maintenance with you.”

Kimathi nodded wordlessly as he took in her red tassel earrings and the creamy black eyeliner close to her lash line. Her nail colour was the same shade as her lips – orange-red. She looks amazing, he thought.

Sensing that he was making his desire for her too obvious, Kimathi turned to look at Zanu. He then looked at the colourful birds chirping loudly on the red-tiled roof of his neighbour’s house. Some of the birds were circling a nest in the tree next to the house.

“Oh, maintenance?” he said as if the topic did not interest him. “I’ll try to put some money in your account at the end of this month. At the moment I’m broke.”

“She is already four months in arrears at her school and here you are living large by drinking your expensive whisky,” Anele retorted, her voice laced with anger as she looked at the glass of cognac in Kimathi’s hand. “When are you going to pay for your child’s education? I know for sure that you can afford it. Why don’t you sell those expensive whiskies and raise the money, huh?”

“Honestly, I’m hung over right now,” Kimathi said, taking a sip from his glass. “Can’t this wait until I’m sober enough to fight with you properly?”

Anele looked at him as if he had just ordered her to drink a cup of his spit. Kimathi saw the annoyance on her face, but he ignored it. They were silent for several seconds, both of them lost in bitter memories.

“Why are you doing this, huh?” Anele finally asked with revulsion. “Why? Tell me.”

“In order for me to answer your question, you must allow me to ask you one first,” said Kimathi, fixing his bloodshot eyes on her. “Who insisted on putting her into that expensive school? You, of course, because you know it all.” He raised a finger at Anele. “I told you that we must enrol her at a cheaper school, not that Sandton place. I warned you that we couldn’t afford ninety-five thousand a year. Look now!”

“Stop right there!” Anele’s tone was hostile. “For the last time, Zanu’s fees are five thousand and fifty per month, or sixty thousand six hundred per year. Unless you have another child that I don’t know of, and you are paying ninety-five thousand rand a year for that child, you must stop mentioning that figure to me.”

“What’s the difference anyway?” Kimathi replied. “Whether it’s ninety-five thousand or sixty thousand, you took her away from me. Why should I give you the money to go and have a nice time with your boyfriends? How will I know that the money is spent on my daughter?” he concluded, but felt stupid the moment the words left his lips.

Anele clicked her tongue in disgust. “Sies! You know what, Kimathi Fezile Tito? You might have learnt everything in exile, except how to be a human being,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears. “You are a nauseating excuse for a human being.”

Zanu began to cry – bitter, frustrated sobs that set her small body shaking. Ki­mathi squatted in front of her, so that the two were eye to eye. Looking confused, Zanu simply stared at him with eyes that were damp.

“I’m sorry, my baby. Just wait until Daddy gets his foot on the ladder, my sweety pie. Everything will be great,” he said, breathing cognac all over her. “At the moment the bureaucratic wheels are still turning slowly for Daddy, but soon it will be okay.”

Anele stared down at him, clenching and unclenching her fists with annoyance as Kimathi nuzzled his daughter’s cheek. Zanu’s face came alive with glee as Kimathi reached out and took her little fingers in his.

“You keep saying that to her every time. Do you think she understands what you’re saying?” interjected Anele, obviously fighting back her tears. “Do you have any idea of the stress and pain you’re causing us?”

“Daddy, it was my birthday yesterday,” said Zanu, showing her sad face again. “Why didn’t you say happy birthday and buy me a cake?”

“Sorry, my angel, Daddy was too busy this week.” Kimathi drew her closer to him. “Daddy loves you every day, and twice on your birthday,” he said. “I’m going to make a huge birthday for you at the end of the month, and we will hire a jumping castle for you and your friends.”

Pulling away from him, Zanu’s small eyes searched his face as if prospecting for lies. Anele shook her head and her eyes narrowed. In response, Kimathi tried to restore his dignity by searching his trouser pockets. His right hand came out with a two-hundred rand note that he gave to his daughter. “Here, go buy yourself a big birthday cake,” he said, offering her the money.

“Stop patronising us and insulting my daughter’s intelligence,” Anele growled, her eyes narrowing with a look of exaggerated scorn. “We are not that cheap.”

Fighting back her rage, Anele took Zanu by her hand and pulled her towards the car.

Kimathi grinned. “All you need to stop that anger is Vitamin P,” he shouted in a condescending tone. “Your body has an over-secretion of salt. You must get laid.”

Anele clicked her tongue in disgust and cursed under her breath. Opening the car, she asked Zanu to wait for her. Then, as soon as their daughter was safely inside, she walked slowly back to Kimathi and stood in front of him.

“Thanks, doctor! But I don’t appreciate you talking like that in front of my daughter. Never do that again! Never, Kimathi!” She paused and looked hard at him. “You’ll be surprised to learn that divorced women are not necessarily loners, like you think they are. Maybe they are just tired of hearing stupid men like you refer to their tiny, deformed stump of a male organ as Vitamin P.”

“Go to hell!”

“No!” Anele shook her head. “Not to hell. To court!”

“Is that a threat?”

“Yes,” she said with finality that told him it was indeed over between them.

Kimathi tried to speak, but his throat produced no sound. Instead, he slumped in his chair, limp and defeated. He felt weak, lonely and helpless. Swallowing a mouthful of cognac, he closed his eyes and exhaled. As he opened them again, he realised that his headache had returned. He balled his left hand angrily into a fist as he watched Anele walk away.

* * *

Kimathi had first met Anele at the Union Buildings in Pretoria during the inauguration of President Thabo Mbeki in June 1999, eight years earlier. She was only twenty years old then, beautiful, and had matriculated from Benoni High School the previous year. He was working in the President’s Office as an economic advisor, and she was with the Mzukwana Catering Company, which was providing food for the president-elect’s guests. He could not keep his eyes off her as she made her way around the dining hall, putting different dishes on the table. She had smouldering eyes, perfect cheekbones and a heart-shaped face that was wide at the forehead and tapered to a narrow chin. She wore black wide-leg pants, a caramel blouse, black sequined shoes, a snakeskin-print blazer, a coral necklace and gold bangles. Kimathi found Anele extremely attractive. Somehow she reminded him of his mother, Akila. He had wanted to kiss Anele’s beautiful lips in front of everyone, to feel the orange-red lipstick on them. Instead, he had only managed to give her his business card. She confessed later, when they had been together for a while, that she had lost the card the same day.

Kimathi had spent the next few days tracing the Mzukwana Catering Company. When he finally had Anele’s contact number, he had tried to ask her out on a date. She was not comfortable with it at first, and refused, giving him silly excuses. In fact, she only agreed to go out with him after he had done something extraordinary.

It was Friday, 25 June 1999, a day that Anele had often – when they were still together – claimed to be the most romantic day of her life. After asking some of his female colleagues for romance tips, Kimathi had called Nkele’s Florist, at the corner of Church and Beatrix in Pretoria, and organised for twenty-four bouquets to be delivered to Anele at her workplace in Proes Street. As soon as this was arranged, he’d called Anele’s manager, Mrs Smith, to let her know of the deliveries, which would arrive throughout the day – four per hour. He remembered Anele telling him that all the girls had envied her on that day. Every one of her colleagues had wanted to meet Kimathi, the romantic guy. At least that is what she had told him when they were still together.

Kimathi had delivered the twenty-fifth bundle himself at four-thirty sharp. It was Anele’s knock-off time and she was completely overwhelmed by his romantic gesture. He had met her at reception as she was about to go home, and when he had asked her to meet him for dinner at eight o’clock sharp, she hadn’t even tried to resist. During their candlelit dinner at the Baobab Café in Menlyn Park Mall, she had told him that Sisa, her boyfriend, was a thug and a car thief. She was not happy with him, she’d said, because Sisa had lots of women all over the Barcelona section of Daveyton township, on the East Rand. After two more dinners, she decided to leave Sisa, and she and Kimathi started dating seriously.

Their wedding took place on 14 February 2000. They had sat for hours with Mapaseka, their wedding planner, explaining their elegant wedding dream. And it had been worth it, as every supplier suggested by Mapaseka had surpassed their wildest expectations. The wedding itself took place at Makiti Weddings and Functions in Kromdraai Valley, an exclusive venue in the Cradle of Humankind. The guests had come from as far away as Tanzania, Angola, Zambia, Australia, England and the USA. They were four hundred and fifty in total. Kimathi had chosen Ludwe and Sechaba as his best men, while Anele’s bridesmaids, Aya and Yolanda, came from Daveyton. The day was filled with love, laughter and joy. He had even serenaded her – “Always You” by James Ingram – under the big old trees beside the river that meandered through the garden. It had been their favourite song. Immediately after the song, she had said to him, “You stole my heart, Ki­mathi Fezile Tito, so today I’m planning to revenge myself. I’m going to take your last name.”

* * *

A black ant biting him on his left hand brought Kimathi painfully back to reality. He squashed the ant with his finger. It is over, he thought. Even the expensive diamond ring that he had given her had been traded at the pawnshop. When he had asked about it, she’d told him that she had sold it to raise money for Zanu’s school fees.

Kimathi looked down into his cognac glass; some ants had drowned inside. He threw the remaining cognac into the garden and, craving a refill, stood up and went back inside the house. But instead of going to the bar, he instinctively opened his bedroom door. As he walked into the room he had once shared with Anele, he tried to force some pleasant images of her into his mind. Opening a drawer, he picked out a red bustier and matching G-string. These had belonged to Anele, but he had hidden them from her when she’d moved out. Souvenirs, he called them, to remind him of her. From the dressing table he retrieved Anele’s favourite fragrance – Lancôme Trésor Midnight Rose – and sprayed it on both the bustier and G-string. Sucking in his breath, Kimathi sat down on the bed holding the lingerie. He stared at the wall, in deep thought. Forget it. Nostalgia is always self-delusion. She is no longer yours. You have lost her forever. You have to move on, brother. She has.