Читать книгу Dog Eat Dog - Niq Mhlongo - Страница 7

Four

Landing back in Dr Winterburn’s office from the reminiscence of my father’s death, I saw her putting my documents back into the large brown envelope that I had brought with me. She took a deep breath and sighed. She looked at me, back to her computer and then to the ceiling.

“Mr Njomane, the decision was taken on the basis of the information that we had at that time. But I’ll try to use my influence to get the committee to reverse their decision. You will hear from us in writing within the week.”

“Thanks very much,” I said.

“Not so fast, Mr Njomane. Remember, I’m not promising anything.”

“Yes, Dr Winterburn.”

“All right. For now you must leave these documents with me.”

I felt relieved. I hoped that something positive was going to come out of this nightmare. I thanked Dr Winterburn for her patience and left.

But before I could get far, I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my gut. It was as if someone had stabbed my stomach with a sharp razor blade and cut my intestines. It was the kind of pain that I imagine Verwoerd felt the day Tsafendas’s knife intruded violently into his gut.

As I entered the toilet I saw three guys standing and pointing their penises towards the gutter. I passed them and went straight to the basin, where I turned on the tap and washed my hands, I splashed the water over my face and onto my shaven head.

The mirror that was attached to the wall above the basin reflected a very different face from the one I knew as my own. The pimple on my forehead had turned into a little tumour. My eyes were round and bloodshot.

The pain began again as I left the mirror. I pushed open a cubicle door that was ajar. The door hit the knees of the person who was sitting on the toilet inside.

“Somebody. Gee! Don’t you knock when opening a closed door?” said an anonymous voice.

I didn’t answer. I went straight to the next cubicle, after convincing myself that there was nobody inside. Closing the door behind me, I took down my pants and sat on the toilet. I tried to force something out of my stomach, but it would not come. It was already twenty past eleven – I had missed an African Literature tutorial. But I hadn’t prepared for it anyway. I would attend the next class, which was Political Studies, at twelve.

I sat there inside the ceramic shitpot thinking about my victory. As I relaxed, staring at the ceiling, I felt something coming out of my bowels. I tried to push but it went back into my colon again. I tried again with all my power, but only succeeded in emitting a very loud fart. The guy next door started to laugh. Those who were urinating at the gutter joined him. The laughter continued. I didn’t care; they couldn’t see my face anyway. I lingered inside the cubicle, waiting until they had gone. Suddenly there was a knock on my door.

“Somebody,” I answered.

“Are you shitting or masturbating?”

“Both. Do you want to eat my shit or drink my sperm?”

“Uhhu! Shit! That smells. What did you eat?”

“Your sister.”

“Shit. It’s stinking.”

“Of course it is. Did you expect a beautiful aroma?”

It was quiet for a little while, then there were footsteps: somebody was coming into the toilet. I heard the door to the cubicle on my left being closed; then I heard laughter.

“What are you laughing at?” I asked.

“Nothing. I’m just thinking of your mother.”

I kept quiet and stared at the wall. On the white door next to the handle there were some words scrawled in black highlighter:

DON’T JUST SIT THERE AND BROOD LIKE A CHICKEN!

SHIT LIKE THUNDER!

I immediately remembered what my brother’s educated friend had said when I had been back home in Orlando West a few days earlier. He had encouraged me to read any graffiti, whether good or bad, wherever it was written. He said I would always learn something from it. Even when I took a piece of newspaper to wipe my arse after having a shit, I should read it. According to him, this would make me knowledgeable. I didn’t know whether that was good or bad advice; your guess would be as good as mine. But that was the reason I continued to read the graffiti.

Many things were written there. The graffiti on my left-hand side really amused me:

IF YOU WANT YOUR BIG DICK TO BE

SUCKED WITHIN A MINUTE,

PUT IT THROUGH THE HOLE ON YOUR RIGHT

AND YOU WON’T REGRET

A second lot of graffiti, which complemented the first, read:

WIPE YOUR BUTT

AND PUT IT AGAINST THE HOLE ON YOUR RIGHT

FOR A FREE RIDE

I looked to my right and saw a small hole stuffed with some toilet paper. The hole was big enough for a penis of my size to fit through. Somebody with a sick mind had bored through the thin ceramic tiles separating the two cubicles. What amused me was that the hole was embellished with blackish ink, like pubic hair on a vagina. I tried to stop myself from laughing but to no avail.

Suddenly I heard an anonymous voice from next door.

“What are you laughing at?”

“I’m imagining me and your mother fucking tonight.”

“Fuck you.”

“You too.”

“You must be a mad guy.”

“Maybe. But I remember your mother telling me that she was pregnant with you about nineteen years ago.”

“You wish, motherfucker.”

I heard the toilet flushing. Then there was a very loud bang on my door.

“I think you are trying to shit to gain a light complexion. Good luck, black boy.”

I heard the main door to the toilet open. Before my anonymous friend could leave I swore loudly: “Fuck you too.”

It was now eleven forty-five. I took out the toilet paper that was blocking the hole on my right, and peeped through the hole to convince myself that there was nobody there. I stood up, wiped my arse, and lifted my penis towards the hole. But before my glans reached the hole I hesitated. What if somebody is waiting to suck my dick on the other side? What if they cut my glans? I heard footsteps. Somebody was coming. I withdrew my penis and zipped up my jeans. Outside the cubicle, I washed my hands and dried them. I looked in the mirror again. I had a lecture in five minutes’ time. I had to go. Time up.