Читать книгу Penumbra - Songeziwe Mahlangu - Страница 4

This is not how things are meant to be. I walk past sickly people in the street. One man’s face is charred, with pink lips that have been licked by spirits. He moves like he is dying. A disabled man sits in his wheelchair in front of the Claremont BMW dealership; he looks around absent-mindedly with narrow eyes. I cross Main Road and wait for a taxi a few metres before Edgars. It does not take long for one to stop. The driver must be in his fifties. I sit in the first row facing the front. The dark-brown seats are oily and torn.

The driver is working here. The mechanics of the taxi industry mean starting the day early, transporting workers to their offi­ces, the gaartjie opening and closing the door, collecting money, giving change and ending at home eating supper in front of the TV. We all have to work. I look out the window to my right, and see the tar sparkling in the mid-morning sun.

“The streets are empty,” I say to the driver. His bald head only twitches. “Is it because of the strike?” I ask.

“The strike is starting on Thursday,” a Muslim man sitting in the front says. He passes me his cellphone to show a message confirming this.

But why is he doing this? Why does he see a need to show me this message? Witches of old used to cast spells like this, by sending notes written back to front. You needed to read the note facing a mirror and would thereby curse yourself. The cellphone here is the mirror. And this man is substantiating a lie, twisting reality.

I pretend to read the message and return his cellphone. Knowing this little fact about witchcraft has saved me.

We pass a tall white block of flats, Becket’s Place, in Newlands. This is where Kwanele was staying, years back, when he saw his ancestor on the back of a book in his room. At the time I dismissed it as a psychotic episode. I’m not so sure any more.

In the southern suburbs the neighbourhoods change names as you travel. Newlands becomes Rondebosch. This is where I’m supposed to get off. But I just do not know where. We drive past Starlite. It is empty, being a Monday morning. I ask the driver to stop opposite Pick n Pay. I stand in front of Cybar. The sky in Rondebosch is blue. Main Road groans with mid-morning traffic. The shops are stacked next to each other: Pick n Pay, Wimpy, the chemist. Thandeka, a woman who plays keyboards for a local jazz band, walks past me. She is dressed in black: black pants and a black blouse. Her eyes are yellow. I watch her approach the Van Schaik bookshop. She too is suffering. Maybe she’s perishing from a lack of knowledge. She fades away from me.

I got off much later than I should have. I don’t know how it escaped me that the Riverside Mall is further back. How can I forget a place I’ve been to so many times before? My brain shakes at this thought; wind blows in my bowels. I count my steps to the mall.

The Vertigo clothing store lies to the right of the entrance. I recognise one woman who works there. I overheard her a while back saying she had stopped drinking because alcohol made her fat. Inside, the corridors are shadowy, with a yellow cast from the lighting.

In front of a bottle store there is a blackboard with price specials written thickly in white chalk, outlined in red. The last time I bought liquor from this bottle store was during my first year at UCT. I was staying in Kopano. We had just finished writing exams. I bought two sixpacks of Black Label cans. That time has now sadly faded.

The manufactured coolness of air conditioning blows inside the ABSA student bureau. The receptionist has long black hair, and stands behind a polished light-brown desk. I look at her for a minute. This woman is beautiful, with a glistening complexion. But there’s something dark that lies in her spirit. Flies cluster in my chest. I approach her.

“Hi, I have resigned from my job. I would now like a reduced payment schedule on my student loan,” I say.

“You’ll have to talk to a consultant for that. She’s busy at the moment,” the woman says. I do not trust her. My nerves pick up speed as she talks. “You can take a seat. I’ll call you when she’s ready to see you.”

I sit on a blue chair, take my cellphone from my pocket and check the time. It is approaching eleven. I look down at the carpet.

“You can go in,” the receptionist calls out. “Go to the second door to your right.”

As I walk in, the consultant is on the phone. I sit down and watch her work. She’s Indian and has short hair. There is a red spot between her eyes. She puts down the phone, looks at me, inviting me to speak. I explain my resignation to her.

“Well, there’s nothing we can do. You have to face the consequences of resigning without settling another job first,” she splutters. While I think of what to say, she continues: “There is another option. You can contact Helen,” she says, scribbling on a piece of paper.

I look at the paper and read: “Helen Messiah.” The phone number contains “666”.

“You can call Helen here . . .” she says, picking up the phone.

I get up and walk out.

“Where are you going?” she calls out irritably.

I do not bother to look back.

The door of a white taxi hangs open outside Pick n Pay. The gaartjie shouts: “Claremont, Wynberg.” He runs after me, “Claremont, brother?” he asks. I shake my head. I walk to the shining white tiles of Pick n Pay and join the queue for airtime. A woman ahead of me takes longer than necessary. Her endless questions irk me.

In the last days, only those with the mark of the beast will be able to purchase food. My heart jumps. I get up and leave. I take deep breaths, push for calmness and stride outside to the street. I should rather walk back to the flat. I never get it right telling taxi drivers where to drop me off. I usually ask them to stop at Crescent Clinic, which is at least four blocks before my place.

* * *

I see the darkness of Kenilworth. It is quiet here, among blocks of flats. The shade of the many trees lends a greyness to the pavement. At this early hour the prostitutes are already working. They peddle death in Main Road, teasing the passing traffic. There is a spirit behind these women that I have only noticed today. Closer to my building, standing against a wall, is an Indian woman dressed in orange. She has sharp pointed ears. From the very bottom of my soul do I fear her. I cannot look at her for long. What will she say if she speaks to me? Her voice will probably throw me against the wall. Then she will laugh in a hideous squeaking way.

It is best I don’t look back. I keep walking. Stale air greets me when I enter the flat. I push open the sliding window in my room. Only two windows allow air into this flat. I also open Tongai’s window. His room is much smaller than mine. Having found the apartment, I chose the bigger room. Tongai has a big sheet of white paper hanging on his wall, detailing things to do: apologise to Nhlakanipho; fast for restoration.

The music of my life plays as I sit in the lounge. I am disappearing into a precarious existence. People have said many things to me. A former flatmate of mine once said that, to him, hell would be not being able to speak to those he loved. I scroll down my phone and call Ndlela. He whispers, “I’m busy at work, I’ll call you at seven.”

I get up to pour myself a glass of water. I once read Alice Walker who said that dying is like being pressed to pee and not being able to. I understand this. It is absorbing too much self-righteousness and not being able to release. I have been bitter for most of my life, looking for wrong in the world. In communist texts I was looking to condemn the world. I was born at five o’clock on the twenty-second of the sixth month. This season shaped my character. Perhaps it’s true that people born in a certain season exhibit similar tendencies, and each season calls for its own action.

The numbers of my birth hinge on moderation. The sixth month is the middle of the year, the twenty-second day is even, and the number five is balanced – half of the perfect number ten. Perhaps this is the reason for my long-standing indecision. Even when it came to God, I doubted for a long time. What if I have suffered the sort of death Alice Walker speaks of? I go to the bathroom to pass water. I disappear into privacy. No one is meant to see me here. I die and come out again.

My phone beeps twice. It is a message from Paul inviting me to men’s ministry at seven. I am now ready to attend. I text back to Paul: “I’m coming.”

This is too presumptuous. Jesus could come before the meeting. Ndlela is also going to call me at seven. Is there any significance to that hour? Will I be judged? The number seven is perfect. God took seven days to create the world.

“Paul, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel nervous. Where are you?” I say on the phone.

“I’m at work,” Paul says.

“Where do you work?” I ask, hoping to go to his workplace.

“I work from home.”

“Can you please come to my place?”

“Well, I have a job. I can’t come right now.”

“Please, Paul, do come.”

“No, you want me to do what you want. I’ll see you at seven,” Paul says with finality.

The ANC wants a media tribunal. Maybe they are right. Behind the self-regulation of the media are people with agendas of their own. But I do not buy into this willing-buyer willing-seller slogan. The ANC has its own agenda, that of power trying to be God. People want to be God these days.

I am heating up, my head is dizzy. I walk out of the clutter of the flat into the corridor. On the ground floor a man sweeps leaves into a black refuse bag. I need someone to talk to. I hurry down the black steps to the man. He is wearing blue overalls and a green skullcap.

“Have you heard about the strike?” I ask.

“Yes, they are going to bring the country to a standstill. These strikers are going to stop everything,” he says, looking at the black bag.

“No, they cannot do that. Only God has that much power,” I say, running out of breath.

“They can if everyone strikes – the teachers, the nurses, the police, everyone.”

This worries me. This man speaks with so much certainty. The children need to go to school. People need doctors.

“Where are you from?” I ask.

“I stay in Khayelitsha; originally I’m from the Transkei.”

He says his name is Siviwe. It’s an ancestral name meaning “we have been heard”.

“I stay here on the first floor,” I say.

“Do you live on your own? All the flats here are bachelors, right?”

“No, ours is a two-bedroom flat. I stay with a friend. He’s at work right now.”

“Oh, as far as I know all the flats are bachelors. This is a very old building,” Siviwe says.

* * *

I rummage through Tongai’s room. There are clothes in his wardrobe. I could not have imagined him staying with me. There are indications of Tongai: a basket with laundry in the corner, books and pieces of paper lying on the floor. Siviwe must be mistaken. Tongai has a South African ID though he’s Zimbabwean. His is different from mine. The back cover of mine is at the front of his. It says he was born on the first of October. In A Beautiful Mind, John Nash only realised much later that his best friend was not real. “You never grow,” he said.

I do not want the TV on. I sit in silence in the lounge. I do not know the name of the church I went to yesterday. It is a Portuguese church, that’s all I’m certain of. When I told my mother last night that I have finally accepted Jesus Christ, she asked which church I went to. I said I did not know. This cast doubt on me. That I went into the church and didn’t ask the name.

* * *

A purple cloth wipes the kitchen window. It is Siviwe. We should be humble when people are clearing our perception. I get up and go to him.

“You see, this is a two-bedroom flat,” I say, holding the front door open.

“My friend stays in that room.” I point at Tongai’s room.

Siviwe enters and peers inside the flat.

“No, that room must have been constructed,” Siviwe says.

Now he is the serpent. Though I have shown him the room he still has something to say. Siviwe is short. His small face grimaces as he speaks. He has come to deceive. I leave him and return to my room. Through chicanery each one of us can become the serpent. This revelation comes to me while lying in bed. I sense a snake’s tongue licking. I want to spit. My spittle would be that of a cobra – venomous. The first step to deception is lying; once you lie you become like the snake. I do not ever want to mislead people. Those blessed with the word can easily galvanise people, invigorate them with rhetoric. They become the snake when doing this. From the water in my eyes, I feel the snake. Maybe it’s under my bed.

I receive a call from my mother. I step out of the bedroom and into the lounge while speaking to her. She says they are happy I have accepted Jesus.

“You seemed worried last night,” Mother says.

“You didn’t seem happy when I told you the news, asking me which church I had gone to.”

“No, we were tired. For the past weekend at church we had restoration. We were sleeping very late. How are you now?” she asks.

“I’m not well. I have this intense anxiety.”

She gives me some Scripture references. I write these on a piece of paper. They are all from Psalms. I read them sitting at a table in the lounge. I plunge from one verse to the next. When the circle is complete I start again. The Scriptures catch each other. I go around, again and again. The fear does not leave me. My throat is dry from the nerves.

* * *

Elio can tell me the name of the church in Parow. He took me there. Over the phone we agree to meet in Mowbray. After meeting with Elio I might as well go to Paul’s place for men’s ministry. I take my Bible along for clarity. The spectacle of walking in the streets carrying a Bible does not bother me. I leave the flat wearing a grey jersey and black denim jeans. I’m back walking the same route I did earlier in the day. They want to stop the world with this strike. Halting everything even for a minute will bring forth judgement. We believers have a lot to pray for. I really have to meet with Paul.

I could fit into my suitcase, a body bag of sorts. In Claremont I flee past the green of the bottle store. Shops and concrete walls hang along the sides of the road. Claremont is its usual dry self, with Cavendish Square looming nearby. Chumani approaches me, carrying yellow plastic bags from Shoprite.

“It’s high time you prosper, gentleman,” I say, as his name translates to “prosperity”.

“Are you OK?” he asks.

“I’m fine, just in a hurry to get somewhere,” I say and leave him standing.

Elio and I meet at the Mowbray taxi rank, as we did yesterday. We stand in the narrow streets of Mowbray, the towering walls of Liesbeeck Gardens residence visible a little way down the road. Elio is wearing a black suit that has lost its colour. His head is small but somehow long. When I ask Elio the name of the church, he hesitates, then says it is Baptista. He says he is going to church now.

“To do what?” I ask.

“To take the pastor’s place,” Elio says.

This grieves me. I put out my right hand towards his chest: “In the name of Jesus,” I say, my breath escaping me, and walk away.

* * *

I have to take a taxi to town to get to Century City. Paul stays in Century City with his wife and daughter. As the taxi fills up, I fear I will suffocate. They are going to fill up the taxi with people till I can’t breathe. This is how I am going to die. I try opening a window. This might help, as I could jump out if need be. But I cannot move the window. I implore the driver to stop in Observatory. This is where I died, Observatory, a long time ago. My life is now being played back to me.

This is where I lost my virginity. She blew me a kiss that morning from a taxi, her caramel skin all wrinkly. I stood on the side of the road wearing my long, red Adidas T-shirt. She wore a black dress and fishnet stockings that night. We had gone to Cubaña in Newlands. I bought her drinks and watched her dance. She’d make her way towards me and grind against my loins with a naughty smile. She soon agreed to leave with me. I didn’t bother informing Nhlakanipho and Mpumelelo. When we slept together I became one with her and all the men she’d known.

We took a cab to my residence in Observatory. But she did not want to have sex. I had to coax her. When I did pound her, I realised afterwards that the condom had split. I had semen on my pubic hair. She screamed, “See what you have done!” and went to the bathroom. I heard the sound of water falling on the tiles as I lay in bed. In the morning we went to a doctor’s surgery in the backstreets of Mowbray. The doctor gave Sofia the morning-after pill and gave both of us prescriptions for anti-retroviral drugs. I stopped at Nhlakanipho’s place in Newlands and asked him to go with me to a pharmacy. I poured out all my pocket money on the ARVs. We visited Kwanele in Valkenberg the same day. God saves us so many times without us realising it. I’m sure there are people who had AIDS and whose blood he healed. Between the time of infection and getting tested a miracle could happen.

* * *

I wince when I pass streetlights with “Safe Abortion” posters on them. From Observatory I cross into Salt River. I am like the wind, blowing without ceasing. I blow past the dark-brown walls of Bush Radio, leave the Caltex garage behind me. Salt River has a blueness about it from all the dilapidated buildings. At the end of Woodstock, Main Road becomes dark as I reach town. I march to the taxi rank on the station deck. It’s about four and the place is teeming with people. There are boards above the bays indicating the destinations of the taxis. I can’t find one pointing to Century City. I ask around and they tell me to join the queue to Milnerton. The line is long. While standing, the name “Century” plays in my mind. It is a complete number. Am I looking for perfection? I look in my tattered black wallet. I have one hundred rand. There is symbolism in this. A fire burns in my mind as if I’m high on weed. I leave the line. I walk alone through the busy taxi rank. What if I cannot touch any of these people? I see a middle-aged woman with extensions in her hair. I offer her twenty rand. To be part of life I have to give to people.

“Why do you want to give it to me?” she asks.

“I just want to,” I reply.

She refuses. I leave her, feeling like a madman. I really want to go to the fellowship, so I call Paul.

“How do I get to your place using public transport?”

“I don’t know. Let me give the phone to my wife,” Paul says.

“Hey, Manga. Look, there’s a station that’s just been built at Century City. You can catch a train,” Paul’s wife says. I walk down to the station concourse and buy a first-class ticket to Century City. I flash my ticket to a lady guard at the barrier. She lifts the steel bar, allowing me to go through. It is like an auction inside the station as a million announcements rush to my ears. I exit the station.

* * *

Back at the taxi rank, I see a guy I used to work with. I introduce myself to him.

“I know you, mfethu,” he says.

“But you don’t know my name,” I reply. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Ntobeko,” he says. This is a message. His name translates to “humility”. The message is for me to be humble.

“Were you at work?” he asks.

“No, I resigned.”

“Why, what happened?”

“Some things happened . . . I fell ill.”

They are all going to talk about this at the office. I was seen crazy in town. I quit my job and lost my mind. I can end up like the vagabond sleeping on the stairs. My story of Cape Town: how the city beat me.

The wind pushes against my face. I amble along the blue-tar road. I call Paul again.

“I can’t get to Century City,” I say.

“Have you tried catching a train?” Paul asks.

“I can’t. I get lost.”

“I’m still busy now. Lemme pick you up later from your place,” he says.

“It’s fine, I believe in God,” I say and drop the call. I pray for calmness. I end by saying “amen”. This feels so empty, evoking the uselessness of a man’s life, how it ends and how life continues. I think of Che Guevara saying “You are only killing a man.” A man is something that is destined to die. The elements of life are the sun, earth, fire and water. Black people are like the sun, shining and beautiful. Somewhere we must have done wrong. We have been humbled to servants. We must take this with grace and not be bitter. Perhaps, seasons later, our beauty will return.

Paul calls back: “What’s going on with you? You just hung up. Have you taken drugs? I told you I’m going to pick you up and you say you believe in God.”

“No, I haven’t taken drugs.”

“Where are you right now?” Paul asks.

“I’m in Woodstock.”

“Just find any McDonald’s or KFC and wait for me there.”

I go into a Debonairs and sit down. A staff member stands in front of me, wearing a black shirt. I call Paul and tell him I am at Debonairs. “OK, wait for me,” he says. The assistant is speaking but I cannot make out what he is saying. He seems menacing, with a charred complexion, and speaks an exotic tongue. I force myself to calm down and stay in my seat. I have to wait for Paul. I need his help. But the fear climbs up the walls and pushes on my chest. I can’t stay. I get out. I start drowning in the street. The street names keep changing. I see streets named after writers like Dickens. Is this the passage of a writer? In the afterlife will I be assembled with writers?

* * *

I receive a call from my mother: “I have just spoken to Bhuti Paul. He says you keep getting lost. He can’t get a hold of you. Where are you?”

I look at the streets in my vicinity. I am at the corner of Dickens and Victoria roads. I’m scared of telling my mother this. It sounds like the corner of Devil and Victory.

“What I love about you, my child, is that you speak the truth,” my mother says. “I have just spoken to Ndlela’s father. Have you taken drugs before?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Which ones?”

“Dagga and cocaine.”

My mother sighs: “Take a cab home, my child.”

Ndlela’s father allowed me to join Ndlela at the initiation school. I was doing my first year then. When we were preparing to return home, having been made men, a relative of mine poured oil over my head in a river, anointing me. Ndlela is one of my dearest friends. Though he works in Joburg, we still keep in contact.

* * *

I read the Bible for equanimity. It isn’t consistent. The verses become different when I read over them. Evening comes. Main Road is boisterous with traffic in motion. What did I do? I regret standing up. Things were fine when I was drinking and smoking. Maybe I need to get a drink? No, I won’t.

* * *

I walk in the threatening darkness, imagining myself stranded in the night, lying in some corner. This night is going to have me all to itself. My legs continue kicking through my jeans. The insides of my thighs are numb. I am desperate for people, anyone to talk to. I call Tongai; he says he is with Caroline at Trenchtown. Caroline is a Canadian who was with us the previous Saturday at a braai in Observatory. OK, I’m coming, I say to Tongai. But Observatory, as I remember when I approach the suburb, is the place of my death. I’m not certain I’ll make it through or whether I’ll decompose there. If I meet them they’ll shake my hand like people do at the end of a race. Trenchtown is in Station Road. What will I say to Tongai and Caroline in this state? I decide not to join them.

No man knoweth the time nor the day. We do not know what will happen next. We do not even know the season we are in. Rasun, a friend of mine, had the habit of flipping a five-rand coin to decide where we should go out. He was close to the truth, for life is that precarious. I sent him an SMS on Sunday, on my way back from church with Elio, saying that God is great. Rasun responded: “Dunsky, come back to me when you’ve found the secret number.” I deleted the message immediately. All numbers say something. One represents beginnings, two stretches to infinity; the same holds with the other even numbers. The only stable number is 666. I cannot hold on to this thought.

I cross the bridge over the N2 in Mowbray, and the wind makes my eyes water. There’s an electrical substation with a grey stoep just before Forest Hill residence. Two old homeless white men used to sit on the stoep. During the day, the more vigorous one could be seen moving between the cars stopped at the traffic lights, imploring the drivers for a few cents. I stayed at Forest Hill when I was doing my postgraduate diploma in accounting. This is where I spent most of my time with Kwanele. As students we drank together and shared plenty of cigarettes. He opened me up to communism. We were bitter, looking for wrong in the world. We were insulting God with all our grief.

My head busy, I wander along the road. Around UCT the blue shuttle buses transport students to and from their residences. All I can do is walk. I’m in a dream state, eaten up with anxiety. I cannot make sense of it. I am running, rushing somewhere. The worst form of dying is to drown. You go through all the emotions, and think you are going to survive, only to die. My feet pedal above the ground. Stopping is one sure way to madness. I do not want to think about what is happening. I have to keep moving. I glide through Rondebosch, flying in the night. Soon I am in Claremont, KFC, then the taxi rank. The last thing I ate was a piece of chicken this morning. My chest is burning and my throat is as dry as the pavement. I buy a bag of apples and some juice from the ladies at the taxi rank. I eat a green apple. My chest heats up severely, and I water it down with juice. When thinking, hot coals rise to my throat and my thoughts ask each other questions, answer each other, and the answers then break into further possibilities. There is no numbness in my mind.

Carrying my Bible in my left hand, and the apples and juice in my right, I continue my journey. I am nearing home. The streetlights colour the road yellow. A homeless kid shows me his brown palms, asking for money. He stands outside the BP garage in Kenilworth. Without thinking, I give him all the coins from my pocket. “God bless,” he says. This is calming and reassuring. Where did this come from? Could he be an angel? It’s probably because of the Bible. The kid is just hustling.

A patient at the Crescent Clinic points at me. I see him in a window facing Main Road. I feel condemned. He is blaming me for something.

Seeing our block of flats makes me hopeful. I can exhale. I am going to make it through this. The front door is grey with rusty brown spots. I sit on the couch in the flat and catch my breath. The covering of the couch is torn, showing the yellow of the foam cushions. I put my Bible on the table. Tongai’s Bible is also here; his is titled Bible for Life Application. These two Bibles summarise my life, with Tongai’s being the book of life. I sure am not going to find my name here. I flip through my Bible, try reading some verses. When I reach Revelations I think I will not be able to go back. Why are there some parts highlighted in red? This could symbolise blood.

I did not think judgement would be like this. This is passive, filled with suggestions, yet with an air of finality.

* * *

I once held Mfundo’s gun. My fingerprints are still on the weapon. I could be called in for questioning should Mfundo be arrested. With my claustrophobia I do not want to go to jail. Mfundo came in while I was sleeping on a sofa in his flat. I looked up. He was pointing the gun at me. “Mfundo, don’t scare us,” I said calmly, looking at him.

“No, no, no, there are no bullets. Look,” he said, taking out the magazine. He then threw the gun at me. “Put it under the sofa,” Mfundo said.

Maybe Mfundo shot me that night. This is all a path to my place of rest. I am being shown my life and the things that happened to me. There was also the night I broke the window in my room. I felt trapped. I tried opening the door, but couldn’t. I was woken by Tongai mumbling that I would not be able to go anywhere. Next, I was pushing on the window. Tongai later told me that I suffer from night terrors. Perhaps I threw Tongai out of the window that night. And the guilt made me shut the truth away. Tongai is dead; I killed him a long time ago. Such a decent guy, who never wanted to harm anyone; I murdered him. It is this sin that is eating me up.

* * *

There are three strong knocks on the front door. I disentangle the chain.

“The people downstairs, guy . . .” Tongai says, hurrying inside with his right hand pressed against his left. He is wearing a long shirt and green cargo pants. “They say you are making a noise.”

Have I been talking to myself? That could be. I pour myself a glass of water. The flat is becoming smaller. The white burglar bars could keep me captive. With my heart jerking, I go out into the corridor. Our flat is on the first floor.

“Let’s go downstairs, guy,” Tongai suggests.

“The body corporate say they are going to call the police.”

From downstairs, a woman with dyed black hair brandishes a cellphone.

All this talk of going downstairs sounds like hell. Is this how life draws to an end? Your friends, those who know you, usher you to hell? Going downstairs means humbling yourself, lowering yourself to the level of the common people. That’s what these guys are trying to tell me: I haven’t been humble. I even told Nhlakanipho to keep his distance from me. I judged him. I was harsh on people.

Mpumelelo approaches me, reeking of alcohol. He is wearing that grey coat of his. “You guys have been drinking . . .” I say.

“I’ve been drinking,” Mpumelelo says, with his right hand on his chest. Nhlakanipho looks straight ahead.

“God is God. Faith is a gift. You take that first step of faith yourself,” I preach breathlessly, to a cold stare from Mpumelelo.

“The Book of Job!” I shout, turning the pages of my Bible.

“Now you are talking!” Mpumelelo shouts.

I remember a poetry reading I attended with Nhlakanipho and Mpumelelo. One woman climbed on stage and said, “The Book of Job.” The poem was about someone who hated his job. Perhaps the cause of my strife was quitting my job, and I just did not realise that it affected me.

I’m terrified looking at Mpumelelo. I’m stuck in the corridor. Satan awaits me downstairs. Hell is at the bottom. The guys want to hold my hands in this gnashing eternity. Mpumelelo walks away, down the stairs. For a while I’m on my own. I continue reading my Bible, my heart hammering in my chest and my head throbbing. Nhlakanipho comes towards me and opens his jacket. His cheeks are burning; he bites his mouth. I lean back and pray for strength as he gets closer.

“In the name of Jesus,” I shout and release my hand with my eyes closed. I hit Nhlakanipho full in the chest. I open my eyes to see him lying on the floor.

* * *

There are cold lapses in time in which I presume Tongai, Mpu­me­lelo and Nhlakanipho gather to strategise. I stand against the cream wall in the corridor. The sharp points in the stippled wall prick my back. I see Nhlakanipho and Mpumelelo coming towards me.

“Look at yourselves. You guys are brothers. This is all because of Nthabiseng. And she was pregnant,” I pant, as the words pour from my mouth.

Mpumelelo mumbles, “We are going to beat you now.” But Nhla­kanipho shakes his head, scolding his older brother. I look straight at Mpumelelo.

“We are going to call the police,” Mpumelelo warns.

Again, the lady from downstairs waves her cellphone.

“Call the cops. I do not fear man, I fear God,” I say, absolutely hopeless.

* * *

They leave me in the cold with my brain frying. One tenant tries talking to me. He is wearing pyjamas. He looks like a dead man. He wants to invite me to the land of the dead. I ignore his utterances and walk to the far end of the corridor. Nhlakanipho comes back with more resolve. He harbours an unclean spirit. I have to pray for him and rid him of the demon.

“Come here,” I beckon to Nhlakanipho. He stops. “Come here,” I say to him again. I walk towards him, but Nhlakanipho turns around and sprints down the stairs. I run after him, but I cannot catch up with him.

Time stands still. Blood rushes to my head. Kwanele said this happened to him when he was hospitalised. There’s no point in me worrying about it now.

Tongai points at Caroline. “Look, Caroline is here,” he says. She looks devilish in a scarlet skirt. I have nothing to say to her.

“When is your birthday?” I ask Tongai.

He takes a sharp breath. “On the first of October,” he says. Tongai once forgot his PIN number, which was his date of birth. He told me his biggest fear was getting Alzheimer’s. A relative of his suffered from the disease.

“Where do you go to church?” I ask him.

“At Church on Main. You can come with me whenever you want,” Tongai says, with his right hand stretched out.

“And the night terrors, how did you know about them?” I continue interrogating him.

“I told you, a lady I stayed with also suffered from them.”

Sydney, with his dark locks and penetrating eyes, walks up.

“You are my brother” is what comes from my mouth. “I love all of you guys, musicians, all of you . . . Thandeka, Kgotso.”

Sydney carries on the same struggle as Rasun; he is also mixed race. He could turn into Rasun. Perhaps he has come to deliver the secret number. I plunge towards Sydney and shove him back.

* * *

“If there’s one thing you should have realised from this whole experience, it is just how much people care for you,” Tongai says to me in the parking lot at Groote Schuur, his right arm around my shoulders. Nhlakanipho is smoking a cigarette. He passes it to Tongai when there’s only a quarter remaining. I hate this about Nhlakanipho – the way he hogs a smoke.

“You were there for me when I needed your help . . .” Tongai continues. “Remember when I was locked in Tagore’s. You came and helped me out.”

This revelation pleases me. I look at them, Tongai and Nhla­ka­nipho. These are my brothers.

“You know, I keep telling you I want to make films,” Tongai says. “The first scene would open here,” he says, pointing at the traffic passing on Main Road below the parking lot.

* * *

We took a cab to Groote Schuur. I could not go on fighting. I had to meet with my destiny. Somewhere far off I feel a pot brewing for my demise. It is either me or someone in my family who has to die. I am holding on to life, my heart scalded from the bewildering air. As we approach the main entrance to the hospital, I make it a point to walk behind Tongai and Nhlakanipho. I shake the security guard’s hand and introduce myself. He is wearing khaki pants and a maroon jersey. “I am Selvyn Rooi,” he says. He has no front teeth. This name means “red cell”. Perhaps he is welcoming me to hell. Like a child, I follow my friends.

“Who do you think you are?” an old woman barks. She paces the floor, as wild as an animal, her hair short and grey. Is this my grandmother? Maybe it’s her. Life has devoured her into this.

A nurse pricks my finger to draw some blood. Hospital staff hover around me. This is a thorough diagnosis. All these things are done to judge me. The diabetes test is to see whether I am too sweet. Too much of anything is not good. Blood pressure meas­ures my warmth. Was I kind-hearted enough to people? All these things are to judge me.

Thoughts flow from my head, informing me of what’s going on. The water will turn to blood. The water is in the drips. I am drying up. I ask for a glass of water. Drinking does not quench my thirst.

My friends are my witnesses; they attest to my character. And the doctor scribbles in his folder. Tonight Jesus has glasses, blue eyes and blond hair.

“What happened?” the doctor asks me.

“I looked into the mirror and danced . . .” I reply.

Nhlakanipho and Tongai look down.

“I realised that the world is selling us idolatry. I got tired of all these images: the TV, newspapers, magazines, internet blogs. I got tired of everything. The last time I felt like this was in high school after I smoked weed with a friend.”

“Do you smoke dagga?”

“I had my first joint when I was doing grade nine. I smoked with a friend of mine, Ringo. He is dead now. He was stabbed with a screwdriver. I mostly smoked on weekends. I never abused it – not one to smoke every day. People just assumed I smoked more than I did. I only started taking drugs this year.”

“Which drugs were you taking?”

“I snorted cocaine for the first time when I started hanging with Mfundo. It also became cool: the self-destruction. I wanted people to know I was on coke. One evening, on the day I had been paid, I spent almost two thousand rand on alcohol and cocaine. Later that night I scored myself a prostitute. I bumped into that prostitute not long ago. I told her that I felt very bad for having had sex with her. She looked sorry. I became too full of myself. I could even make prostitutes feel bad. Tongai came in the room when I was with the lady. He knew that I had company. He told me that he took a good look at her. What sort of a person does things like that? Since that night, I haven’t taken drugs, haven’t had alcohol or smoked. I broke a window in my room the week following my encounter with the prostitute. I think it was caused by stress. I felt trapped. The last time I smoked weed was when you, Nhlakanipho, came running into my flat with Mpumelelo. You were running from Mfundo. Since that day I felt nervous in the flat. I feared I’d walk in to find a gunman.”

“How much does cocaine cost?” the doctor asks.

“It goes for four hundred rand,” I reply.

“Four hundred rand a line?” he asks, looking shocked.

“No, they sell it in grams. It is four hundred rand a gram,” I correct him.

“How much did you get paid?”

“About nine thousand rand a month. When I was young, I cursed God. I remember I was sitting on the lawn of our house in Alice. I cursed in isiXhosa.”

Nhlakanipho rolls his eyes upon hearing this.

“My grandmother once came and cut all my hair with a pair of scissors. I used to have bad dreams when I was young: running in town seeing people dressed in black with necklaces of horns. Before sleeping, my grandmother used to rub me with pig fat to ward off evil spirits. I once dreamt of white women with black hair masturbating; they also had small penises.”

My speech is rapid. I am not thinking. My words cut Tongai’s and Nhlakanipho’s eyes.

“My father I saw only once dressed in his Zulu outfit. I did not really see him. I only saw a photo. It was in his parents’ home in Soweto. One morning he kept on beating me for spilling food while I was eating. His mother shouted at him to stop. I did not want to cry, but tears streamed down my cheeks. Tongai is the only person I’ve told that the last time I saw my father, he wanted us to take a blood test. I was fourteen years old then. I refused to go for the test. He once took me to a graveyard in Zola and spoke to the ancestors. When I hear that song by Zola, ‘Bhambata’, I go crazy. ‘Tsotsi usus’eka Bhambata namhlanje, sofa sibalandele ba­ningi la siyakhona,’” I sing.

Tongai looks fearful as he exhales through his mouth.

“What does that mean?” the doctor asks.

“We’ll die and follow them; there’s plenty where we are going,” I reply.

When the doctor is finished writing, he will give the verdict: whether I will make it to heaven or not. Blemishes in my spirit keep surfacing; I confess these to the doctor. In all fairness, the process is just: first the body test, the perspective from my friends, and then the verdict.

“When I was about ten years old, me and my friends called this one girl into the back room in my house. We took turns sleeping with her. I was young and I did her on top of her panties. I met her later in life; she looked like a prostitute. She died from AIDS. Guys always blamed me for Bulumko smoking weed because he first smoked with me. But then they started smoking every day. Every day after school they’d go to the park. He got expelled. I don’t think he even passed matric. Whenever I met him, he was unkempt.”

One at a time, Tongai and Nhlakanipho go outside with the doctor. I sit quietly with the female nurse and one of my friends. I still have my Bible in my hands. What worries me is that I’m the only one with a Bible here. Don’t they realise that they need the holy book for reference? Before the doctor decides whether I’m going to heaven or hell, I have to get it all off my chest.

The doctor returns, followed by my friends.

“I went to a Portuguese church on Sunday,” I tell the doctor. “It was such a surreal experience. It was like the service was custom-made for me. The preacher spoke of the issues I’ve had for a long time of doubting God. He said we should yield to the music of the creator. I went to meet the pastor in his office after the service. Holding his Bible, he asked me my name. It felt like he was reading from the book of life. At the flat later in the evening we were watching South African crime stories. I was scared watching the programme.”

“Yeah, what was going on?” Tongai interjects.

“I thought that guy who had raped was going to turn into me. In the end I feared his face would transform into mine. I was also concerned that you, Tongai, were going to die. While in bed I had flashes of my life. Throughout my life it seemed everything had been a battle between good and evil. Is that what happens before you die, your life flashes back?” I ask the doctor.

The doctor shrugs.

I remember how I mistreated Nhlakanipho, how arrogant I was. At least Tongai was humble enough to apologise. I was walking with Nhlakanipho at about five in the morning. I was angry with him. I told him not to walk with me, to go home. I felt he was not fit to walk with me . . . That was my problem. I judged people too harshly.

“You, you speak ill of people.” I confront Nhlakanipho.

He scratches his head.

“Why are you looking down? That’s what you do. You never have anything positive to say about anyone. You gossip about everyone – even your own brother, Mpumelelo. That day when you were at my flat and you left thinking I was not in a good mood, what really happened was that I realised that your heart was steaming with hatred. I dreamt we were fighting that night, I was pushing you in the corridor, yelling ‘In the name of Jesus’. But I did not even believe in God at the time.”

Nhlakanipho only scratches his head again in reply. I address the doctor: “There’s so much about Nhlakanipho that tires me. This desire of his to be the king of the castle, whatever is on offer on the table, whether it’s food or liquor or cigarettes or attention, he wants the biggest chunk of it. Who gets drunk and wants to be the centre of attention? Spending time with Nhlakanipho became dreadful. He’d dump on me . . . all the problems he had with people. By the time he was done, I’d feel drained. I realised that I didn’t need this in my life. I did not have to go through it; it’s not like he was someone I worked with, whom I’d have to interact with.”

The doctor nods in agreement.

“I did not show up for my last day of work. That was very rude of me. My contract was due to expire at the end of the year. I did not want to go back to Trilce Health anyway, so I resigned. I felt wasted there. Every day was like detention, just waiting for the day to come to an end. It’s funny, afterwards, even though I was not working, I felt my time was better spent. I could do the things that I really wanted. I started writing a story. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than writing. I deleted the story five chapters in. I allowed Tongai to read it once and immediately regretted it.”

“But I told you it was good,” Tongai says in a gentle tone.

“Why did you regret showing it to Tongai?” the doctor asks.

“He was not being sincere. He reacted like we were at a hip-hop gig, shouting ‘Blaka blaka’. I had decided a long time ago not to share my work with Tongai and Nhlakanipho. With young people there’s a lot of competition. It’s hard getting an honest response from them. Guys easily feel threatened.”

The doctor’s hand does not stop moving; he writes down everything I say. The nurse looks at me with sadness. In the hospital we passed what looked like a waiting room. The people there looked like they were in mourning.

“What was this story about?” Nhlakanipho asks.

“The theme was success. I looked at the world around me and how people measured success. To me it felt empty, the dry notion of getting a job and almost worshipping money. I was also fascinated by Mfundo: how someone could make a living out of crime; once money was in his hand it did not matter how it got there. But I deleted all of it. I thought, who am I to be telling people how to live their lives? Maybe I was trying to make a name for myself.”

Nhlakanipho nods slowly.

“I hate this about Nhlakanipho, the condescension. Look at how he nodded when I said maybe I was trying to make a name for myself. He has a sharp nose for other people’s weaknesses. Nhla­kanipho once told me that the real poets do not get published, that the ones who perform have been told that they are good.”

I am running out of breath. My heart is beating fast. I think that tonight I have to die. But life is precious, I have to fight. I used to think very little of people who feared death. But life has to be cherished. I cannot give up.

“That lady you invited to the flat was a sangoma,” I say to Tongai.

“Normal life coach . . . normal life coach,” Tongai grunts with a slight grin on his face and with his right hand laid over his left.

“Barefoot with dreads,” I remark. “From the very first time Tongai asked me not to be around the flat, I became suspicious. I had this feeling that he was going to invite a faith healer who would sprinkle water all round the flat.”

“Do you think you have any special powers?” the doctor asks me.

“No, no, I refuse that. God is God,” I reply in consternation.

“One Saturday Tongai walked into the flat with a whole fried chicken,” I continue. “He offered me some but I refused. I feared that the fat would clog my creativity. He seemed disappointed and said, ‘Why don’t you want my chicken?’ I did not want to seem disrespectful so I cut two pieces for myself. When I was done eating I asked if he wasn’t going to eat. He said he was not hungry. The following day the chicken was not in the house any more. I started seeing strange things at Tagore’s . . . That’s when this started, when I ate the chicken . . .”

No one else speaks. Tongai does not say a word. There isn’t anything else that I can say.

The nurse says: “No, another one.”

It seems I am preventing the doctor from attending to other patients. The doctor also seems restless. He wants me to make up my mind. If I sleep here, I do not believe I will wake up. The hospital air is freezing.

After a few moments of reflection, the doctor says: “I strongly suggest that he stays over.”

I fear being hospitalised. This will surely lead to Valkenberg. But I certainly need help. I cannot sleep on my own at the flat. I grope for my Bible, read the verses I turn to. The others all stare at me coldly. The doctor grows impatient. “Look, you have to decide,” he says. I understand, he is needed elsewhere. The nurse sighs; another patient has been admitted. I close my eyes, say a quiet prayer: “Lord, I cannot go on fighting.”

* * *

In the morning I lift up my head from a white pillow. My nose is dry from the morning draught. My arms dangle in blue hospital robes. I am alive. A drip is connected through my hand. I should quickly get out of here. I rip off the drip with my teeth. As my feet touch the cold floor, five security guards surround me. I try pushing them off. But there’s no point in fighting them. I can’t. They lift me onto the bed. I watch them bind my arms in a straitjacket and attach me to the steel of the bed.

* * *

I scream when I wake up. A security guard runs towards me.

“What’s the problem?”

“Could you please untie me? I want to go to the toilet.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Number two.”

He just stands there. I wet my robe, and leave a salty smell.

* * *

“Ahhhhhh!!!” I yell when I wake up. The same security guard comes to me again.

“What’s the matter?”

“I need to use the toilet.”

He just keeps quiet. I wet myself again.

Moments later, I wake to them untying me. I try not to get too excited. My mother is standing beside me. “He is going to be fine now . . .” the matron says, injecting something into my arm. Drops of water dribble off the tip of the needle. I do not feel anything.

I move my left arm around. The straitjacket has left a sweaty, swollen mark. I walk around the floor to make sense of everything. When I see the doctor who attended to me the previous night, I ask him, “How’s my case looking?”

“You spent all your money on drugs and you lost your job. That’s what precipitated this condition. If you take drugs again, you will end up on the streets,” he says.

I smile and nod. It is chilly in here. I do not have anything on my feet. I walk back to my bed.

“Your nails are too long,” my mother says. “Do you mind if I cut them?”

“No, you can.”

My mother clips my toenails as I lie on my side.

“Mr Zolo, please follow me,” a security guard interrupts.

The security guard takes me past a white security door to the psychiatric ward. One patient has his arms stretched out, spinning around.

“You are going to meet people worse than you. Please try not to panic,” my mother whispers. She is prohibited from going beyond this point. The patient is directed to his cell by a male nurse. There is a TV playing and the patients sit around it.

I sit alone on a plastic chair. The psychiatrist is attending to a man, probably in his thirties.

“We are going to have to take you to Valkenberg,” the psychiatrist says. The man breaks into tears, rubs his eyes, looking down. “We are doing this to help you.”

The psychiatrist is wearing a cream sleeveless jersey and brown chinos. He is affable when he interviews me. I answer all his questions satisfactorily. I notice when he tries to trick me.

“You are from East London, right?”

“No, I’m from King William’s Town,” I tell him.

“What’s the one thing you want to do more than anything else?”

“I want to write.”

“Oh, a writer . . . an artist . . .” he mutters. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

“Like what?”

“Have you taken drugs?”

“Yes.” I was afraid of saying I had taken drugs.

“Like tik?”

“No, I only took cocaine and weed.”

“OK, it seems like you are fine. We are going to discharge you. You don’t need any medication.”

He pauses and looks at me intently.

“You must write, whether you get published or not,” he advises me.

I nod.

My mother hugs me when I tell her I have been discharged.

My Bible is in a clear plastic bag, like a piece of evidence. I get it from one of the nurses.

“You really looked like you were going to die last night,” one nurse says.

* * *

I sit on the bed, having taken a shower and got dressed. Nhlakanipho calls me on my mother’s phone.

“Tongai took your wallet and your cellphone for safekeeping,” he says. “How are you feeling now?”

“I’m much better,” I reply.

“I can tell you’re fine now,” Nhlakanipho says.

“It was a spiritual battle,” I say.

“We’ll talk later,” he says, ending the call.

Heavy rain shoots down in the bitter wind. The cold creeps into the wooden shelter for the security guards where my mother and I wait for Tongai to bring the apartment keys. He gets out of a colleague’s car and runs up to us. He has a blue cap on his head.

He smiles and presses his right hand against his left when he greets my mother.

Tongai runs back to the car. He and his colleague are off on some work trip. My mother and I walk down the hill from Groote Schuur. At the bus stop on Main Road, we wait for a taxi. It is mid-morning. Nurses trickle up the road to the hospital. Behind us is Texie’s fish and chips shop. I hold up my index finger, seeing a cream-coloured taxi approaching. The vehicle halts and the gaartjie drags the door open for us. The only available seats are at the back. I sit closest to the window to the right.

Things are hazy to me. I’m just grateful to have made it out of the hospital. My nerves have calmed. I whisper to my mother how much money she has to pay. The taxi drives down the wet road. I am looking out the window.

* * *

As the taxi approaches the first group of flats in Kenilworth, I ask the driver to stop. My mother and I walk the rest of the way to my apartment building. The woman from the body corporate hovers in the yard as I open the gate. She is wearing a long black gown.

“I do not trust her,” I say to my mother.

“She seems like she could be one of these gypsies,” Mother responds.

We place our bags in my bedroom. Things have never been open between my mother and me. She was only eighteen when she had me, during her first year at varsity. And so she left me with my grandmother. When she started working in Joburg, I used to visit her. For a while, she was living with my father in Joburg. We’ve always had a distant relationship. Even when Mother started staying with us, in my high school years, we never warmed to each other. But she supported me throughout university, paying for my fees and sending me pocket money.

In the afternoon, I decide to cook. I defrost some boerewors from the freezer. Mother sits in the lounge while I chop onions. I make rice and mixed vegetables to accompany the meat.

Mother says grace once the food is ready. We eat in the lounge. There’s a copy of Chimurenga, with Brenda Fassie on the cover, lying on the coffee table.

“My father predicted that Brenda would be a star,” Mother says, after looking through the magazine.

“What happened to your father? How did he die?” I ask.

“My father . . . he died from a heart attack.”

I have never been able to ask what happened to my grandfather. We have a picture of him in our living room at home. He died a couple of years before I was born.

“I was under intense attack when I fell ill,” I say.

“Those demons didn’t want you to come into contact with Bhuti Paul,” Mother says. “It’s probably because of that church you went to. I have heard of similar things happening to people who attended Universal Church. In some cases they were not even able to make contact with their family. They would be in the same place and would not be able to see each other,” she explains.

“Tongai also attends a strange church. He doesn’t want any of us to ever go with him to church. He says he becomes a different person in there. Tongai also has his things. There are times that he asks me to vacate the flat when he has to meet with his life coach,” I say.

Mother keeps quiet and continues eating.

“I didn’t know you could cook this well,” she says.

I shrug. I had to teach myself to cook when I started staying in a self-catering residence. It wasn’t that hard.

“You know, what I really want to do is to write,” I say suddenly.

“I didn’t know that. I never would have imagined it, considering your brilliance with numbers,” Mother responds.

She’s right; I have always excelled in mathematics. But since high school I have had the idea that one day I would be a writer. In my last two years at university, I became increasingly isolated. Studying accounting felt meaningless. What surprises me is my mother’s calmness at my revelation. For some reason, I had always assumed that she just wanted me to make money.

“Well, we’ll have to figure out a way for you and your writing,” she suggests.

* * *

We have to buy air tickets for our trip back home. We head to Rondebosch, to the travel agency in the Riverside Mall. The earliest flight we can get is on Sunday. At night, Mother sleeps in my bedroom. I take the lounge.

* * *

The next day, in the early evening, they all come to see me: Mpu­melelo, Nhlakanipho, Tongai and Nhlakanipho’s girlfriend, Le­sego. It is my first time meeting Lesego. She looks dry, with thin hair. Mpumelelo appears yellowy in his grey coat. I smell brew on Mpumelelo’s breath. I look him in the eyes, shake his hand; he nods, with fear all around him. I sense Nhlakanipho’s heavy eyes from the side. As I approach Lesego I become aware of my baggy shorts and skater tackies. She puts out a feeble hand and nods nervously.

I offer them something to drink. Mpumelelo jumps up first. “I want some,” he says with his right hand on his chest. I pour each a glass of Tropika. The gathering is awkward. No one mentions my breakdown. Nhlakanipho drove to my place. He has hired a car for the weekend. Moments later, he gets up. His belly protrudes through his golf shirt. He is wearing black sandals.

“I have to take Lesego home,” he says.

I see them out of the flat. Mpumelelo stops, looking like he has forgotten something; he goes to my room and bids my mother goodbye.

* * *

Tongai says that I was extremely strong on the night of my break­down. My remembrance of the events surprises him.

“That’s the part I find very strange,” he says.

I confide to Tongai that I thought judgement was nigh, that I feared Armageddon would take place at seven, as people wanted to meet me at that specific hour.

“I understand why Kafka wanted to have all his writing destroyed after his death,” I say to Tongai.

“It was a matter of the heart. Only he knew where his heart was at the time he wrote those books. Leaving lasting works when you know your heart was not in the right place would be hell. Those who went ahead and published his writing were wrong.”

“Hayi, the dead have no rights!” Tongai bursts out. Then he puts his hands together and looks contrite. I read his regret at his brash utterance. Tongai often makes remarks and then says he’s sorry. Apologies are a part of his nature.

* * *

Tongai dashes out to work in the morning. He is an intern at an advertising company in town, and works until noon on some Saturdays. A while back, he had to package CDs that were to be distributed to taverns promoting Three Ships whisky. I assisted him that day, and it was tedious.

A faint sunlight smiles through the window in my room. I vibe to Gil Scott-Heron, peaceful melodies transporting me to a land of spirits. Since the beginning of this year, I have acquired the habit of recording life in a journal. I have to write about the madness of the past few days, but my journal is not on my desk. I ransack my room looking for it.

“Have you seen a black notebook?” I ask my mother.

“No, I haven’t.”

“This is very strange, I usually keep it on my desk.”

I call Tongai at his work. “Do you know where my diary is?”

He takes a few breaths before answering. “It’s at my mom’s house. Me and Nhlakanipho, we were looking for clues as to what caused your breakdown,” he explains.

“No, I don’t like what you did. So you read my diary?”

“No, we didn’t, serious . . . we didn’t.”

“I don’t like what you did.”

“The diary is in my bag in the lounge,” Tongai finally says.

I find the notebook in the bag. I no longer have the urgency to write. I wonder what they saw in my diary. I’m even afraid of looking at what I have written.

My mother placates me by saying that when someone has gone through an experience such as mine it is only natural for people to look for clues. She calls Tongai to apologise on my behalf. Tongai tells her to tell me that he’ll be watching rugby later in the afternoon. At about three I join Tongai at Café Sofia in Rondebosch, upstairs from the Pick n Pay. Inside there are round brown tables. The floor has brown tiles. There is a vibrant feel to the place, with young students serving as waiters. Tongai sits with intent at the table, wearing the round glasses he recently bought. His previous pair was lost during a drunken night out. Tongai has a glass of draught beer in front of him. For this game – South Africa against Australia – he supports Australia. I find this odd. Black guys usually support New Zealand when they don’t favour the Springboks. I am not at all interested in the match. Even though I attended a boys’ school, where rugby was a religion, I have never had a liking for the sport. To Tongai’s pleasure, Australia wins the game.

Nhlakanipho and Mpumelelo had gone to Mzoli’s in Gugulethu. They join us later at Café Sofia. Mpumelelo orders a beer. Nhlakanipho is still trying to stop drinking. He has orange juice.

“You know what I observed at Mzoli’s?” Mpumelelo ventures. “Everything depends on money. You know, the chicks look at what the guy is drinking. Everyone goes there with a car.”

Nhlakanipho shakes his head, not impressed by what his older brother is saying. He yields to his craving and calls a waitress to order a beer. I keep quiet, not paying attention to what the guys are saying. With a car for the weekend, Nhlakanipho wants to make the most of this mobility. He suggests they go somewhere else. As if he can read my mind, he offers to drop me off at home.

* * *

I lie on the couch tucked under a duvet. I have been reading Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre for a while. Now, I find I cannot absorb the book. The feelings of the meaninglessness of everything seem stale. When I told Rasun I was reading Nausea he said he didn’t like the book. He has always had more of a penchant for life.

The creak of the door wakes me. It is Nhlakanipho and Tongai. They take a seat on the other couch to my right. Nhlakanipho’s eyes are bloodshot.

“You know, what we have realised from this whole experience of yours . . . is just how sadistic we can be,” Nhlakanipho says coolly, caressing his belly.

I grunt at this statement. My reaction is almost reflexive. Nhla­kanipho does not take this further. For several heartbeats we sit in silence.

“I even regret hiring this car now,” Nhlakanipho says. “There’s no way they won’t notice the scratch.”

“You have to explain it to them,” Tongai advises.

“What were you doing with this car anyway?” I ask Nhlakanipho.

He does not reply.

“I was trying to sleep, gents,” I say. Nhlakanipho mumbles good­bye to me. Tongai sees him out.

* * *

In the morning, while we pack, I make a point of taking all my diaries with me. Tongai accompanies us in the taxi. He is on his way to church, and is carrying his big brown Bible. He gets off in Claremont. Mother and I continue to the airport. The taxi driver drops us off in the loading zone. I push our luggage in a trolley into the terminal. The airport is not that busy. Our flight is scheduled for half past twelve. We check our luggage at the airline counter.

For breakfast, we go upstairs to the Wimpy. I have brought two books to read on the plane: Summertime by JM Coetzee and The Will to Die by Can Themba. Mother glances at the books while we sit at the Wimpy.

We eat breakfast, go downstairs and wait for our flight. I board the plane, carrying my books in my backpack. I know the Cape Town – East London route all too well. I have been flying it since my first year at varsity. The planes are very small, with only two seats in each row on either side of the narrow aisle. I feel claustrophobic as soon as we enter the plane. Seeing the door close frightens me even more, though the announcement of the exit doors calms me. It introduces an element of control. I am not entirely trapped.

About ten minutes into the flight, a flight attendant comes down the aisle. “Would you like anything to drink?” she asks.

“I’d like some grape juice,” I reply.

She passes us our meal packs. Lunch is a cold chicken burger and a bar of chocolate. We eat as the plane buzzes through the clouds.

* * *

In East London, we wait for our luggage around the conveyor belt. I run to the front upon spotting my bag. Mother brought only one suitcase with her. Once we have placed our bags on a trolley, we make our way outside. The East London airport is much smaller than the one in Cape Town. Here there are only two levels; everything happens on the ground floor, with a few restaurants on the top floor.

The electronic doors slide open as we walk out of the terminal. There are a few cars parked close to the entrance. These are usually cars of VIPs. Mother had left her car parked at the airport while she was in Cape Town. It takes a few minutes to find the car. We pull out of the parking lot. Mother inserts the parking ticket into the machine and we drive out of the airport. Soon we join the highway leading to King William’s Town. The car radio is playing “Nizalwa ngobani” by Thandiswa Mazwai. For a while, only the song matters. It gives me brief happiness.

The trip takes us about half an hour. Pink and orange RDP houses appear as we approach the signboard that welcomes us to King. We turn off the highway and pass the BP garage. Up close, the houses are dilapidated, the paint peeling. We drive into our suburb. It is a quiet neighbourhood with families of moderate means. Mother stops in front of our gate; I get out of the car to open it. It’s been this way since high school: whenever we went to town, I would have to open the gate. Before we even enter the house, my grandmother comes out to meet us. She looks older than the last time I saw her. It always worries me seeing her grow old. She gives me a brief embrace. My grandmother is someone who worries a lot. She has a panicked air, and is easily startled; you can pick it up from the way she breathes. Even now I can tell that she is uneasy.

Our house has neat lawns at the front and back. The house itself is painted peachy orange. The gate is low; someone could easily jump over it. We have a black-and-white postbox above a pillar at the front gate. We know our neighbours only by name; there is no other connection. I found this quietness and coldness frustrating when we first moved to King from Alice. The streets were hauntingly still. But I got used to it over the years.

* * *

As soon as I have settled at home, I send Tongai a message to say we have arrived safely. His response is “Blessings, brethren”, a phrase he has never used to me before. I swallow it with suspicion.

Things seem smaller at home – the TV, everything. There are five of us in the three-bedroom house: my grandmother, my mother, my aunt and her daughter and myself. We have a domestic worker, Ma’Dlomo, who comes in weekdays to clean. My grandmother cooks in the evenings. Before going to bed, we convene in the lounge. We each read a passage from the Bible and we close with a prayer. I used to try to find something vilifying in the past: I’d read a verse about the Israelites being God’s people. When it was time to pray I would just kneel and close my eyes, waiting for them to finish.

My only chore is to go out and buy bread and the newspaper. On one of my trips to the store, I hear a whistle from behind. It’s a friend of mine, Luvuyo, emerging from Diva’s, a liquor den. He asks me to buy him a beer. I’m no longer working, I tell him. I sense his disappointment. It feels like he expected more from me.

“Come chill with us inside,” Luvuyo suggests.

“There are some loose ends I have to tie up,” I say.

This town carries pieces of me. We used to attend a church youth programme on Fridays when we were in high school. For Bulumko and me, it was a chance to smoke weed. We’d go there stoned. I lost a lot of weight and people kept asking me if I was well. I was finicky about eating. Before I went to sleep, I’d lie in bed thinking of all the food I’d had during the day. The less I ate, the more pleased I was. I had started gaining weight when we moved to King William’s Town from Alice. By the time I was in grade seven I had become fat. That’s how the silence began. Gradually I spoke less and less. I was shaken one year when my mother came down from Joburg for the holidays and didn’t recognise me. I had become skeletal. From that moment, I started eating again.

My grandmother has been retired for close to ten years now. She basically raised me and is the only parent I really know. In this house she beat me disciplining me when I was naughty. When I came close to dying, I realised just how much I loved her.

A childhood friend, Siyabonga, lives in the street below ours. He was with Ringo on the night of the stabbing. For many years he has been applying for jobs. He did a couple of semesters at the University of the Free State, but left when his father lost his job and could no longer pay his fees. Together we laugh about our age-mates in government, with their inflated bellies and behinds. These working men frequent a tavern close to the train station on weekends. They carry trays laden with meat and alcohol.

The horizon is purple as we sit in front of Siyabonga’s house. When he asks me why I quit my job, I tell him that I got tired of working for coloureds. That’s how it is in Cape Town, I explain. Soon the sky darkens, the conversation dries up and we part ways.

* * *

We take turns in the bathroom on Sunday morning while preparing for church. The hot water runs out after the first two people have bathed. I have to heat my water on the stove. I’m very fussy about bathing. I cannot wash with cold water as it gives me a neurotic itch. We leave my aunt behind at the house and drive to Bhisho in my mother’s BMW 3 series. Dishevelled young men in the parking lot outside the church busy themselves washing the cars. My mother raises her hand, signalling to the young man who usually cleans her vehicle. He runs towards us carrying a bucket and a sponge.

The church is an expansive orange building that used to be a Cash and Carry. It is right in the centre of Bhisho, past the garage and the police station. Bhisho is a little town of civil servants. There are a few shops that cater for the small populace. We worship surrounded by government offices.

My mother and grandmother walk to the chairs closer to the front. I take a less conspicuous position at the back. Our pastor is a light-skinned man in his mid-thirties. He wears a three-quarter gold suit like the ones worn by the preachers on TBN. He used to attend our fellowship in Alice when he was still a student at Fort Hare, my grandmother tells me. I must have been five years old back then. His passionate singing draws me into the worship. I join in to sing. I have never been much of a singer. I was always told that I was out of tune. The preaching loosens wires in my throat.

“You should brace yourself for stormy times when you ask God to make you right,” the pastor says.

“As you come from that period your return will be multiplied tenfold. But don’t expect God to reward you the way you want him to. See, God is a God of covenants; he sticks to his agreement. Samson had long fallen off. When he was with Delilah he had already backslidden. But God’s word was: ‘No meat and no wine.’”

The pastor looks off into the horizon.

“Do not wish to be in another person’s position. You do not know that person’s struggles. Why you were born, where you were born – do not question those things. See, people in the world want to have certain achievements and things at certain times in their lives. What they forget is that there are also God’s seasons. There are seasons that God sets in your life. When those seasons come, you better be prepared.

“Do not curse God when he is purifying you. Accept the challenges that come your way. If this is your will, God, then let it be, you should say. Remember, God says: ‘My grace is sufficient.’” The pastor lifts up his right hand and stares into the distance again.

Sweet tears stream down my cheeks. My time is still coming; life ain’t over. I might not have the accessories that some of my age-mates have, but my turn will also come. Our pastor has been working hard for a long time. Week in, week out, he finishes the service with his jacket sticking to his sweaty back. As a university student, I doubted him when he said circumcision was demonic. In those days I was into Black Consciousness and saw him as demonising African tradition. My acceptance of Christ has required me to get out of my mind, for spirituality is not an exercise of intellect. It’s like Paul says: “These battles are not of the flesh and blood.”

At the end of the service the pastor calls for people interested in joining a transformation programme to be held in East London to stay behind. I have been humbled. Work is work to me, irrespective of titles or prestige. This initiative would allow me to make a contribution. I write down my details in the roster that is passed around. The only problem is that I’ll be heading to Cape Town in a couple of weeks’ time to clear the flat. I’ll have to miss the first session.

* * *

My mother says Tongai is a very sweet boy. She prays for Tongai and Nhlakanipho, asking God to forgive their sins. She even wants to call Tongai to find out if he’s well.

“Your friends were very worried about you,” my mother says. “Nhlakanipho almost cried when he explained that they did not have a choice. They had to take you to hospital.”