Читать книгу Young blood - Sifiso Mzobe - Страница 6

3

The Plan

We arrived at Musgrave Centre to the end-of-the-day buzz of shopping malls. Elongated afternoon shadows rushed to the bus stop, some to taxis, a few to their cars, while others stuck together in the various steady walks of love. I parked the 325is behind the metered taxis opposite the bus stop. Musa turned his head faster than a meerkat as girls passed by. He was like a glutton at a buffet, uncertain about which pavement to choose – our side of the road, where girls in two-piece suits headed for the parking lot to their cars, or the bus stop, where mostly students waited for public transport. His gaze fastened on the bus-stop side.

“Check out the dark-skinned one holding oranges in that clique of fair skins,” he said.

“I told you you’ll see. That’s her. That is Nana, my girlfriend.”

“That is a girlfriend and a half, Sipho!”

I knew Musa did not believe me, but Nana acted it out for him. Her clique became instantly irrelevant as soon as she saw my waving hand. I loved the way she walked, as if stepping on sand. I did not understand yet somehow grasped that she loved me, even though she lived in a mansion at leafy High Ridge in N Section, which was practically a suburb within the township. My father’s house looked like the servants’ quarters at her house. Her father was a lawyer. Her dark complexion, dimples and large whiter-than-snow-on-TV eyes came from her housewife mother.

“Hi baby, did you enjoy the rest of your day yesterday? I waited for your call until I fell asleep. How are you?”

Her hug was warm, the peck she allowed me polite, for she was not a fan of public kissing.

“I am alright. Ma hid the telephone key again so I could not call. What’s with the oranges, baby?”

“Ma said I must give them to your mother.”

She waved to her friends, who were all giggles. Musa slid into the back seat.

“This is my friend, Musa, by the way.”

“Hi, Musa, nice to meet you.”

“Hi, Nana. Thank you for helping my friend; I am happy he has someone. Sipho, can we pop into Westville for a few minutes? I have an appointment at four.”

I have this stupid notion of rating people by how good they look in cars. Nana got a perfect score for the 325is. She made it look whiter. Her dimples were at their best in a half smile – like right there and then.

“Baby, you know I have to be at home by six o’clock,” Nana said.

“We won’t be long,” I convinced her.

We stopped to fill up the tank at a garage on Berea Road. I sent Nana to buy soft drinks, cigarettes and a starter pack. Musa strolled around on a call. The petrol attendants asked to look at the engine. They were joined by two white men in their forties and a formally dressed black guy. Just for show, I started the engine and pressed the accelerator for one hard rev. Nana returned and stood by my side. Then a black BMW M5 – circa 1988, and spotlessly clean – entered through the exit of the petrol station and stole everyone’s attention. Musa ran to the M5. He was in conversation with the driver for barely a minute, but when he came to us there was something different about his face, the lightness of a smile that ran from ear to ear.

The 325is displayed its rage on the N2. I could not resist – in places, that freeway has four fat lanes. I was lucky the speedometer did not work, because Nana was always alert in a car, glancing at the speedometer several times a minute. I was probably doing 180 km/h, yet there were no remarks from her or seat belt warnings. She was uncharacteristically calm and not even wearing her seat belt. While she applied lip gloss, she told me about the movie she had seen. She did not feel the speed. If it rides on four wheels, the suspension must definitely be sporty.

I did not know the way to Musa’s house, so I reduced speed when we entered the suburbs of Westville. I recalled some of the streets we powered through. A friend of mine once took me to a party in the same area. On that weekend, my uncle Stan from Pietermaritzburg was down for a visit. Uncle Stan rolled in a big black BMW 735i. He gave it to me for the whole weekend. I still meet girls who were at that party; they think I’m rich. Being no mood killer, I go with the flow.

The air you breathe changes in the suburbs. There are more trees than houses, more space than you can imagine. The silence is healthy, the peace of mind a priceless asset. It is the kind of place you should be in if you want to be the fastest forward.

Musa lived at the end of a street whose name I never saw – the sign was hidden behind trees. It was the most peaceful place I have ever visited. His house was a contained, face-brick cluster. Space seemed absent upon entry, but the back yard was where the land was. The gradual slope felt like a park – there were even park benches. The balcony looked out onto houses scattered amid the trees. Space is what I see when I think of that house. In the lounge there were black leather sofas big enough to sleep on comfortably. The lounge looked out onto the balcony.

Nana turned on the TV. The programme was music videos. She watched intently. We smoked weed on the balcony.

“Do you know the driver of the M5 I was talking to at the garage?” Musa said.

“Not really, as in riding and rolling with him, but I have seen him around. He’s very down low, though he disappears for long periods to return with a faster car. Isn’t he friends with the owner of the garage in R Section? I have seen his car there,” I said.

“You are right. He used to scheme with those people. He made me a proposition, but I want you and Vusi to be in on it as well. He is a quick, smooth mover. You won’t regret this, Sipho. Do you remember the remuneration talk we had this morning? This is that type of thing. He put me on some fast money up in Joburg. His name is Sibani – the purest of all money lovers. He is a quick thinker, but most important of all he is fair.”

I watched Musa as he talked – his eyes turning crimson by the smoke from the blunt. His matter-of-fact speech and serious expression were today’s story to yesterday’s journey of carelessness.

“We have to see Vusi first and I’ll lay it out for you. Damn! I don’t have any food in the house. What do you want to eat?”

“Nana, what do you want to eat?” I shouted.

Nana turned down the volume and came to the balcony.

“Anything,” she answered softly, as if turning down my own volume. We eventually decided on Nando’s chicken. While Musa was out getting the chicken, I snuggled next to her on the sofa. She smiled and gave me peppermints to counter the smell of ganja. I perceived this to be a sign that read deep kissing ahead.

My favourite part of Nana’s body is the curve at the back of her waist. I touched her ear, and felt her heat. Lips locked, we rotated in slow motion. I slid my hands down, felt the contours of her hips. Seeing all was in rhythm, I touched the top of her thigh. Lecture time.

“Baby, we can only kiss.”

“But why, Nana? You know I love you.”

“I love you too, baby, but I am not ready yet.”

“Can you give me a time, then? An estimation of when? Baby, it has been a year. How many more months until you are ready?”

“Don’t get like that, baby. We will do it when I am ready.”

I had never had intercourse with Nana. Physical love would solidify what we had. I stated this. Instead, she gave me lectures on readiness. I didn’t understand – and still don’t – how anyone could make tall tales from so meaningless a word. I went to the balcony, smoked a cigarette and a blunt in succession to let my erection subside, and gave her zero for conversation.

All the women in my life say I handle rejection like a spoiled child. I hear them, but I won’t change. If you don’t want to do what I want you to do, for that minute or hour or day, we have nothing in common. We might as well not relate.

Musa returned with the food. He joined me on the balcony while Nana set the chicken on plates.

“When I left you were all smiles. What’s the problem now? Is there trouble in Loveland?” he mocked.

“She is playing with me, my brother. We have been going out for a year of no sex.”

“I feel for you, Sipho, but flip this coin. Look at it this way: Your problem is rare. Girls with brains want it to mean something. You can see that, at least.”

Our meal – chicken and chips with Coke – went down in silence. Nana slowly took bites of her chicken. She mimicked a frown, her lips pursed. In all honesty it made me laugh, for she looked like a little girl. Musa answered the intercom through a mouthful. He hurried for a change of shoes.

“My appointment is here. Here is the key – make sure you lock up when you go. Take my car. I will call and we can meet up in the city later. Bye, Nana, I hope we can meet again in a more festive atmosphere,” he said.

I ate in silence. Nana picked sulkily at her chicken. We sat on separate sofas, indifferent to each other. I tried to activate my starter pack but the battery on my phone was dead. Stretching out, I flipped through the channels. She washed the plates and glasses.

“When will we leave, baby? I don’t want to be late.”

“We can go now, even.” I grabbed the keys from the table.

On the freeway, I nearly clocked the 325is, stopped short by Nana’s sobs. I did not look at her directly during the trip to her house. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see she had a tissue over her face.

“I don’t know what you are crying for, Nana. I am the one who is not loved here.”

She let out a torrent, which eased when we entered the township. I dropped her off with no goodbye kisses.

* * *

“Mus-sa called. He s-said you s-should meet him by the 320 at s-seven o’clock.”

My little sister Nu was watching cartoons when I got home. She was ten years old, and still sucked her thumb. My best friend since birth, she even talked with the thumb in her mouth – a habit that deeply irritated Ma. The family had learned to understand her, even with the added s’s in her speech. As for the neighbours, their conversations with Nu were kept to a minimum. It was close to six o’clock. Ma was getting ready for work.

My mother worked as a cleaning lady at Clairwood Hospital near Lamontville. She sometimes worked night shifts, and there was no warmth at home when she was gone. She had the gift of making meagre resources suffice. There were times in my childhood when I did not know exactly what her occupation was. Before her sewing machine gave out, she sewed clothes. There was also a period when she sold Tupperware. Now she made extra cash selling home-made pies.

“I have been waiting for your father. He went to test the Ford Courier an hour ago, but he still has not returned. He’ll make me late for work.”

Ma sat next to Nu on the sofa, her handbag and steamy, transparent pie container placed neatly on the coffee table.

“What time does your shift start?”

“Half past six. Are you driving? Please take me if you can. My boss is strict about punctuality.”

“After I shower, Ma,” I said.

I gave Nu the left-over Nando’s. She replaced her thumb with chicken.

The shower was bad timing, for the hot tap sprayed me with cold water. The geyser must have been switched off to save electricity. I was in and out faster than in a robbery. I thought of Nana while I got dressed and wondered whether she really loved me.

“Hurry up, Sipho, or I will be late,” Ma shouted.

She organised Zodwa, our neighbour’s daughter, to babysit Nu.

“Who are you fixing this car for?”

“Musa.”

“There must be money in Joburg. What has it been – a year or so? And he has bought himself such a beautiful car. Where is he working?”

“He only returned the other day, Ma. I have not had time to ask him about that.”

“Your aunt Bessie called. She wants you and Nu to go up to Bloemfontein for the holidays.”

We were at the last robots out of the township; streams of cars were entering and departing. Return day-shifters, exit the night-shifters.

“It is cold up there, Ma.”

“Well, Sipho, you must call her and say so, because she will be expecting you.”

Aunt Bessie lived well. She had a butchery and supermarket in her own shopping complex. She had married some politician guy she met at varsity. Aunt Bessie gave us cash just to visit her. I was fine with the money part; the drawback was boredom and the chills of a Free State winter. Her children – my cousins – spoke English all the time, with a snobbish accent. I was down with none of that plastic life.

“Take a pie. I made spinach for supper and I know you don’t like it.”

“Thanks, Ma.”

I dropped her off at the main gate of Clairwood Hospital.

For a car that breathes as freely as a BMW 325is, Durban’s West Street is best at night. It is empty, so the robots are there to be raced. The sky is pitch black, the streetlights a bright orange. The sound from the tailpipe reverberates off the buildings as if the high-rises, banks and chain stores have their own engines. I hit West Street a few minutes before seven. The 320 Building is where the city stands. At night, there are suburban and township girls in equal numbers. The upper classes wait for daddy’s car to take them home; the hardcores for anything out of the city.

Musa was finished with business by the time I arrived at the 320. We tried to sweet-talk some girls, who would not give us the time of day. Locating Vusi was not a problem – everyone in the city knew him. We found him by the inconspicuous beaches beyond Willows and the Durban Country Club.

He was there with a crew of eight – five girls, three boys. His gestures and posture screamed township. They were sitting under a gazebo, highly weeded. A braai was in full flight, and there were two cooler boxes packed with liquor.

“Brothers, to what do I owe the pleasure? I guess I can never hide in this Durban,” said Vusi, flashing his gold grille.

“We need to talk,” said Musa.

He did not have to add anything to entice Vusi into the 325is. The radio was switched off.

“I know both of you are serious about money. Well, here is a chance to make it. My friend . . . no, my brother, Sibani, told me about a hustle he has for me and two other people. What we’ll do is steal cars – real cars, six cylinders and above – change the tags, engine numbers and colour, and sell them. We’ll take them across borders if we have to. Sibani and I will raise the cash for paperwork and extras. All you two must do is get the cars.”

I had recently helped my father disconnect a troublesome anti-hijack system. Musa knew this. I had never stolen a car. Musa knew this too.

“I hear, Musa. I understand you, my brother. The problem is, I have never stolen a car before,” I said.

“It is not the hardest thing in the world, Sipho. Otherwise there would not be so many car thieves in the townships. The actual stealing is not complicated. Finding the heart to go steal is the hard part. You have to want to do it; that is the only way you will learn. Vusi, you are all quiet; what do you say?”

“I have been under a gang before, Musa. You know it is the runners that get less, even though they are the fire.”

“You have not heard the best part yet. When you bring us a car, we will pay you a few thousands – cash just to move around – but when we sell these cars, at just below the market value, half is for you two, the other half is for us.”

“Don’t be so quiet, Sipho. Say something,” Vusi said.

“I am thinking we should not ride these cars much. Digital odometers are hard to turn back, and mileage is what buyers look at most in cars,” I said.

“In fact, we will drive them only when taking them to the buyers. Must I take this nodding of heads as a yes?”

Vusi and I nodded again.

“Sibani will give us the list in a few days. Business is over. Who are those chicks, Vusi?”

“Some suburban chicks we picked up at the 320. There are some fly ones, though. You see the one . . .”

That was how it went down. I heard it as I listened to the ocean. I did not even try to go against the tide. One girl rode me on the sand, so slow it seemed to never end. We smoked weed until sunrise.