Читать книгу Young blood - Sifiso Mzobe - Страница 5

2

Flirting With the Game

I woke later that morning to my father’s impatient knocks on my bedroom window. Before I’d gone to sleep, I left the window open just a peek as I never could stand the pungency of overnight alcohol breath, even my own. When my father tapped on the window, the aroma of his coffee slid through the gap and provided a welcome change of odour in the aftermath of a hard night’s drinking. I recalled Nana’s words, the ones I always heard whenever I tried to kiss her while drunk. The way she laughed at all my jokes yet squirmed when I came closer: “If your breath smells like this, imagine your insides, stomach and everything. I am definitely not kissing you.”

“You have visitors. Why are you still sleeping so late?” Dad asked.

I heard him first as a distant echo that amplified to jolt me out of slumber.

I took a minute to scrutinise the room and confirm that all the landmarks were there – the stained ceiling, mirror, Nana’s birthday card. I moved the curtain – made by Ma on her sewing machine before it died – and saw Dad under the bonnet of a mistiming Ford Courier. With him were two members of the Cold Hearts gang. I had seen the Cold Hearts at the party in Lamontville, but they had never come to us before to have their cars fixed. My tongue was a mess of yeast, barley, weed, cigarettes, ethanol and chips, and my head felt heavy. Definitely bathroom first.

I knew about the Cold Hearts. They were blood-spilling brothers. They talked – when they did talk – as if emotion was painstakingly sucked out of each word, so much so that if you were to replace their original words with others, the sentences would still sound the same.

In the township, there were horror stories about the Cold Hearts. Their signature was on the cash-in-transit heist up at Stanger that left all the guards dead, as well as the bloody hijackings at Hillcrest, which had brought the flying squad into the township. The disembowelling of a taxi driver in broad daylight – over a parking spot – had township people shaking their heads in silent outrage. Was their insanity enshrined in brutality and sheer barbarism?

I had a question of my own: What did they want from me?

The older of the two Cold Hearts pulled me aside. He seemed okay, so we went outside, by the painted part of the blue wall. He was a short, stocky, bald-headed heap of pure muscle. Despite their reputation, the Cold Hearts neither drank nor smoked. I had not seen any of them talking to the girls at the party in Lamontville. In the boisterous party atmosphere, they were blank-faced and aloof, and sipped only soft drinks.

He looked up at me with eyes so blank I wondered if anything functioned behind them.

“Help me with this. I hijacked a car and drove it all the way from Hillcrest. I even went to the party in it. Now when I want to take it to the buyer it won’t start. I hear you are good with these things. Can you start it for me?”

It did not sound like a question, so I did not answer. Only when I saw a slight crease on his forehead did I inquire, “How much will you pay me?”

“Don’t worry, we will pay you,” he said.

“I just need to know. I like everything out in the open. I have had people come here just like you, but in the end I don’t get paid.”

“Don’t worry, you will get paid,” he said.

“If your problem is what I think it is, I will charge you R800.”

“We will pay you,” he said again.

“Let me get my things, then. How far away is this car of yours?”

“First line of houses behind the church in G Section.”

In the fog of a hangover, I collected wires and pliers from our tool box by my father’s legs.

“Do they have a problem with wiring?”

“The way they describe it, I think so, Dad.”

“Before you go, can you start this car?”

The ignition on the Ford Courier only turned. There was no spark.

“Okay, stop. Will you pass any shops on your way? I need the paper, and bread for when your sister comes back from school.”

“I’ll see, Dad.”

“Those are expensive pliers, please come back with them. You keep losing tools but you never replace them.”

“I will, Dad.”

When I saw the car supposed to take us to G Section, I felt a sickening ball of fear which I first dismissed as heartburn. It was the latest BMW 3 Series – not even the yuppies and taxi owners had it yet. I had felt such fear only once before – a year before, almost to the day, when I’d crashed a car into a concrete barrier on my sixteenth birthday.

Everything stopped. My heart and lungs took time out. I felt severe nausea when I closed the door and sank into the cream leather seats. It became almost unbearable when I saw that the upholstery around the ignition had been torn out and a screwdriver used to start the engine. The icy storm of the air conditioner, and the absence of a licence disc on the windscreen, sent a single stream of cold sweat down my back. The reservations I had about starting a hijacked car in G Section were zero compared to R800. I would work fast, get the job done, take my cash and disappear in fifteen minutes. But the car supposed to take me to G Section was also stolen. This added an unforeseen, worrying dimension to the matter. The ride to G Section in a stolen car was not part of the calculation.

The Cold Hearts went wild with the car’s gadgets, like children let loose in a toy shop. Thick fingers poked the sunroof button, while the taller and younger one set the air conditioner to full blast. I needed fresh air, but thought of fingerprints being dusted off the window button and quickly cancelled that idea. The younger Cold Heart turned to me in the back seat, a dead gaze on his boyish face.

“What is your problem? Why are your eyes bulging out?”

I pointed to the windscreen.

While they were playing with all the gizmos inside the car, Musa had parked right in front of us, blocking the way. He got out, his face a mask of revulsion. He spat on the tarmac and called over the older Cold Heart. They crouched in the space between the two cars. Musa did not answer my greeting, and he just stared at the gangster. The ball of fear in my throat dissolved when he spoke.

“You are trespassing, brother. This here is my soldier. There must be a very good reason he is in your car. You better be giving him a lift or something.”

Musa had his thumb in front of his face. When 26 gang members crouch to resolve issues, the raised right thumb is the sixth digit, on the presumption that all fingers of the left hand have been counted. Musa had his thumb up. The sign of the 26 gang. That six briefly turned into a seven when he pointed at me.

“Nice party at Lamontville yesterday,” replied the Cold Heart. “And I must say it was nice when you played your cars, though personally I find it to be plain showing off. But girls like it. We are brothers, you and I, money lover. The very thumb you raise up, I was raised on it. My body is a gallery of medals. We can go there from dusk till dawn, Musa. You have never seen your kind wild like me, two and six.”

The older Cold Heart rolled up both sleeves of his shirt.

“You see, Mr Superstar from nowhere, everything written on this body tells a story. I am a captain, I have led teams and pushed schemes in and out of prison. Do not fluke me because I know this: the law of the number says it does not matter if it is my soldier or your soldier as long as we get money. Or has the law of the number changed? I hear in Westville Prison you can buy the number these days. Did you buy it, Mr Superstar? Who are you, to speak of soldiers? What do you know about the thumb you raise to my face?”

“It is all the same, money lover. It is still as I say: my soldier is coming with me. We have money to make,” Musa said.

“Money lover, we were also on a mission that was smooth sailing until you came along. Who do you think you are? Do you know you can die for this?”

“Man from the east, money over everything. A captain never talks to a general like this. I am a general here; in essence, I run things.”

Musa took off his T-shirt.The tattoo over his heart showed two playing cards: a two of spades and a six of flies. Its appearance averted the threat of violence, for the younger Cold Heart had climbed out of the car with a knife in his hand. He silently moved away.

“It is as I said – my soldier is coming with me.” Musa crouched firm.

Tattoos in prison are like certificates in society or medals in the army. The Cold Hearts were ready to take out Musa, yet the law of the number proclaimed him untouchable. The older Cold Heart stood up and retreated with a shake of the head. Musa parked the 325is on the side of the road. I realised, as the Cold Hearts sped off, that the ball of fear had vanished – and that my father’s pliers were gone.

I am a township child; I knew what Musa and the Cold Heart were on about. I knew that what I had just witnessed was the law of the number of convicts, as laid out only briefly in number lore. I knew what the stars tattooed on my father’s shoulders stood for. I knew that the stars were emblems from his past life as a lieutenant in the 26 prison gang. I knew that the 26 gang was for the money. When I was about twelve, I asked my father about his stars. Dad looked at me with regretful eyes, shook his head, and said, “It is just a fairy tale, son. My boy, never believe in fairy tales.”

I also knew that the tattoo Musa showed to the Cold Heart indicated a high rank in the 26s. It was neither pretty nor clean, but rugged jail art. I knew at that moment that, during his time in Johannesburg, Musa had spent time in jail, and, as an all-rounder, had excelled in that side of life too – so much so that he was badged a general. The Cold Hearts were gone, but Musa was still scowling.

It dawned on me, as I looked at him, that Musa’s life had unravelled in a peculiar manner.

* * *

Musa was born in Nongoma, true dustlands where the tropical flavour of coastal KwaZulu-Natal is just a figment of the imagination. He arrived in Power, aged ten, to stay with his aunt who was not really his aunt because there was a break in the bloodline when their family tree was properly traced. Musa lost both his parents to tuberculosis the year he turned ten. The lady who took Musa in was a childhood friend of his mother. When Musa arrived in Power, his aunt was also close to my mother because they attended the same church. This was way back when the religious bug was still strong in Ma. Musa’s aunt also helped out with household chores while Ma was recovering from giving birth to my sister, Nu.

Musa arrived in Power to a crowded shack, for his aunt had children of her own, as well as other children who were distant or imaginary relatives sent to her – just like Musa.

Musa was different from the other children of Power. On the dusty patch we used as a soccer pitch, the other boys ran bare-chested. They wore only shorts, citing the heat as the reason for their dress code. But we all knew they could not afford T-shirts. Musa always wore T-shirts. In twenty-cent soccer games, Musa never lost. He was different.

The teachers in school loved Musa because he was blessed with an absorbent brain. It was as if he were in class to prove false the concept that says repetition is the father of learning. Musa heard it once and never forgot. On weekends, he was never short of gardening offers from our teachers. Most of us begged to clean their gardens and yards for pocket money, but the teachers always chose Musa. When Saturday lunchtime matches began at the dusty pitch, Musa always had money in his pocket.

Life was hard at his aunt’s shack. Sometimes, when I woke up too early for school and just sat in our back yard, I saw all the children who lived at his aunt’s shack leaving for school and wondered how all of them managed to sleep in such a small space. With the proceeds from his gardening gigs, Musa bought what a child should not have to buy for himself – food and clothes. There was something too mature about him. I never saw a child take care of himself like Musa did.

Unlike me, he was an all-rounder. I was a good soccer player but a dismal student. Musa did everything well – school, soccer, he even did athletics for our school. He was good at everything, and when the shoplifting bug infected the township Musa caught the most acute strain. He excelled at shoplifting too.

When Musa dropped out of high school, three teachers crossed the stream to his aunt’s shack. I was in the back yard at home and saw them talk to Musa for over an hour. A few days later, he passed by my house with a hurried step.

“I am going to Joburg. I hear things are better there,” he said.

“When?” I inquired.

“Now,” he said.

For a year and six months, that was the last I’d heard of him. The crouching duel in number lore with the Cold Heart had taken place on only his second week back from Johannesburg.

* * *

“Drive me to F Section, I have to see a friend there.”

The look of revulsion was still on Musa’s face.

He neither spoke nor flirted with girls at bus stops and on the pavement. He just smoked, with a scowl so vicious I did not dare ask for a puff.

“It was just something to direct, Musa, R800 for hardly fifteen minutes,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road.

Apparently there was something very wrong with my attempt to break the ice.

“Do not tell me about things to direct. All of a sudden you know the Cold Hearts. My friend, peel your eyes because you are rolling with me. Or should I peel them for you?”

His tirade continued when I shook my head.

“I think I should. One – you are with the Cold Hearts – by association you are guilty. In a stolen car with no licence disc, no number plate. What were you thinking, Sipho? They call themselves 26 but spill blood like 27s. Their code is kill for whatever. Do you know what happens when you are arrested in a situation like this? The police beat you up before they hear your story. They won’t care that you had nothing to do with the stealing of the car you are in. They put you in this thing called a tube and suffocate you. After that, all you can muster is a confession. Then comes the hard part – the bail money, the lawyer fees. A lousy R800 you were never going to get anyway is not worth all this trouble, because the Cold Hearts don’t pay. Country crooks who came to the city for money; the only thing they know is how to take.

“I don’t want you riding with these snakes, Sipho. Because they saw you spinning yesterday they will approach you looking for a getaway driver. If anyone comes to you with that shit, tell them to come see me. None of them will pay you. I will put you on in a scheme for money if you are fearless. Remuneration for bravery must make sense. Fuck their schemes. I will put you on a sweet scheme.”

By the time we reached F Section, Musa had cooled off a bit.

“Stop by the third house on your right. Vusi lives here,” he said.

The crooks who lived in F Section called it France for no other reason than the letter “F”. The streets bustled like most sections of the township, but F Section did so with greater hustle. Three boys who were hardly thirteen years old stood opposite where we parked.

“Ask him,” I heard them whisper as we closed the doors of the 325is. Musa turned to them.

“What do you say, nephews? What do you have for me today?” he said.

“A stereo, bra Musa, one of the latest ones with a face that flips.”

“I’m never buying from you again. The stereo you sold me last week does not work. How much for this new one you are talking about?”

“R300,” they answered simultaneously.

“Your price is too high. If you can work out a better price, maybe I’ll buy it when I finish here.”

“But, bra Musa, we are three – a hundred for each.”

“Go collect it so I can see it, and maybe we can work something out.”

The boys ran off.

“I am at the back!” Vusi shouted from the back yard as Musa was about to knock on the front door.

Vusi sat on a stripped-out car seat, both feet resting on an empty beer crate. A dumpy sweated on the ground next to him.

“You have good timing, brothers. I have just returned from town, hardly thirty minutes ago. How are you?” Vusi said.

“Alright. Where were you?” said Musa.

“At the chest clinic in the city. My uncle, Sazi, had an appointment.”

“How is he? The last time I saw him, he was really sick.”

“Considering then and now, I will say better, but he is still sick. Most of the time he is in bed, like now.”

Vusi offered beer, but we both declined. I accepted his cigarette, though – and the deal he put on the table.

“It is good you are here because I will need your help. I have to finish stripping this car by two in the afternoon. If it was not for Sazi’s appointment, I would have finished a long time ago,” Vusi said.

In the shade of a makeshift carport, a top-of-the-range Nissan Sentra stood on bricks.

“You can steal cars for other people, Vusi, but I have to beg you for my M3. I placed my order with you when I was in Joburg. What did you do with the mag rims of this car, anyway? I know someone who has wanted them for months.”

“You should have told me. I gave them to someone who has not paid me yet. So will you help me or what? The buyer has called me three times already confirming the time.”

“How much will my cut be?” Musa said.

“The guy will buy everything for R8 000. I’ll give you R3 000. You can put in the quiet king of drifting and cut half with him. I am serious, Musa, this is an emergency job. We should be on it as we speak.”

Musa looked at me with an inquiring smile.

“What do you say, Sipho? Are you down for R1 500?”

I just nodded my head.

“Good then, Musa. You will be on the doors, bonnet and boot. Sipho, you will be inside, and I can take the engine apart.”

“No ways,” Musa said. “I have money to collect and people to see. I’ll check you grease monkeys after two.”

It was just after eleven when we started. From his room in the back yard, Vusi salvaged a tool box my father would have died for, an angle grinder and a six-pack of beer.

“Is beer alright? I have water and cold drink if not.”

I settled for water.

“You have to be neat, now. The buyer owns a scrapyard so he is looking to resell the parts.”

Vusi handed me a set of screwdrivers and small spanners.

He changed into overalls, the top half rolled and tied at his waist, but the gold remained. I took off my T-shirt and sat down on a beer crate for balance inside the car. The front seats were already stripped out.

Vusi was short and thin. Tiny in a way that made it a certainty that not much about his frame would change in the future. Musa and I looked young, but with elongated frames. Vusi looked fourteen. What he lacked in stature he made up for in boundless energy.

Vusi looked young, yet his words were driven by a force twice his real age. There was a smooth way to his demeanour that strongly hinted at criminal experience. His shoulders were strong and muscled in a weird way, too defined for the rest of his body, like they developed too soon and the rest was still catching up. He went through the task with a relaxed face, but worked fast, with controlled energy, like a person doing what they know they are good at.

Through the gap of the open bonnet I saw that it was not trial and error with Vusi. He knew the correct spanner sizes for the engine parts. When he reached for his tools, his hand returned with the exact-sized spanner. His shoulders locked, muscles strained, bolts and nuts popped and his tiny hands swivelled them out. Vusi took the engine apart methodically. He was mechanical in the task, clear about what came out first, like he had done it a thousand times before. Neat too, with all the nuts in one pile. Consumed by the task at hand, he did not say a word as he worked. I concentrated on my part of the job inside the cabin and mimicked Vusi’s mechanical ways.

In thirty minutes the inside of the cabin was finished, and just the pedals and wires remained. I joined Vusi on the outside. Ten minutes for the front and back lights, as well as the grille. We took a five-minute smoke break and cooled our faces with tap water.

“Will you smoke if I roll a blunt?”

Vusi was busy crushing weed.

“Sure. I want to smoke it sober today. Yesterday your weed killed my night with the darkest blackout I ever had.”

“After you finished spinning, nothing happened anyway. Those cowboy country nuts – the Cold Hearts – started fights and shot guns in the air. All the girls were scared. You can spin a car, Sipho. All the crooks were asking about you.”

“I was raised around cars. My father is a mechanic, and you know how some people leave their scraps and never return for them. I helped my father fix the scraps, and in return he let me drive around in them. When he was away, I practised spins in them. But the 325is, Vusi, that machine was made for spinning.”

We revved the blunt. I downed it with water. Vusi guzzled beer. I looked at the Nissan Sentra – the victim of our destruction. It smiled a toothless grin.

The midday sun chased away the morning breeze, so we worked faster.

“Better we sweat once and finish. It will be hotter soon. We are almost done anyway. It is just the shell we have to cut in half, and the engine block, but the block I am not selling. I’ll take it to the recycling people at Isipingo. There they pay by weight. I must get a quotation from your father, Sipho. There is a chisel-shaped RSI he needs to look at for me,” Vusi shouted through the sound and sparks of the angle grinder.

“What is wrong with it?” I shouted back.

“It mixed water and oil, so the engine has no power. It has been parked for two months now. How much do you think he will charge me?”

“He’ll take the cylinder head to the engineers to skim or do whatever is needed. Then put it back again. The engineers’ fee will determine the price.”

“And like that we are finished. You can wash your face and hands in the bathroom inside the house. Do it quietly because my uncle is asleep.”

I heard the horn of the 325is through the bathroom window over the beeps and rumble of a reversing truck. A violent cough from a room opposite the bathroom echoed through the house. Two men were loading the broken Sentra, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, onto the back of the truck.

“Here is your money, Sipho. Thank you, my brother. You really helped me out. Musa is waiting for you outside.”

“I am the one who should be thanking you, Vusi,” I said.

“We will organise about the RSI.”

“No problem. Come see me when you are ready, Musa knows the way to my house.”

I left Vusi arguing with the driver of the truck about the engine block.

“How much did he give you?” Musa said.

“I did not count it.”

“Count it before we leave.”

“It is R3 000 exactly. Here is your share.”

I placed fifteen R100 notes in Musa’s palm. He returned five of them.

“Thank you for this, Musa,” I said.

“No need, Sipho, you worked for it.”

“Can we go to the city? My girlfriend is at the movies with her friends at Musgrave Centre. I must also buy a SIM card for my phone.”

“Is she pretty? I made a resolution this year: only pretty girls ride in my car.”

“You’ll see,” I said.