MONWABISI’S HEADACHE HAD LASTED for three days. He was worried that he might have a brain tumour. He thought of going to the doctor, but that would cost money they didn’t have. On the morning of day number four, with his head clear, he decided he’d cure himself with his own style of traditional therapy: long-distance running.
He used to feel so powerful at the end of a run, but he’d let all that strength seep away over the years. Running could give him the power to fight off anything. He couldn’t justify draining half the family income for his little bottles of pills.
He went to the wardrobe and pulled out the black carry bag he’d gotten at the 1993 COSATU Congress, the days when an injury to one was still an injury to all. His red nylon shorts, New Balance cross trainers and Adidas tracksuit were all neatly folded inside. Putting them on felt like going to visit an old friend.
Musa and Fidel sat next to Monwabisi on the lounge floor as he began his warm-up routine. He grabbed his right foot, trying to bring his head down to his knee. He couldn’t reach it. He used to be able to sit with his legs spread and touch his nose to the floor. He had a long way to go.
Musa stood up and pushed on his father’s back, forcing Monwabisi’s nose within a few centimetres of his knee.
‘A little bit more,’ his father said.
Musa threw his shoulder behind the push and something crunched in Monwabisi’s spine.
‘Take it easy on me, kwedini,’ his father told the boy. ‘You’ll break me in half.’
Monwabisi moved to the front garden with his two boys in tow. He leaned against the facade of the house, stretching his calves. They’d never felt this stiff.
He started off with a slow jog. Musa stayed at his side for a few hundred metres. With his long, loping strides, the boy had potential. As Monwabisi doubled back towards the house, Musa dropped off.
Monwabisi stepped up the pace, felt his throat burning. When he ran in Joburg, the smog cut into his lungs. Sivuyile had clean air. This pain came from being unfit.
He caught Makana Boulevard, dodging the hooting taxis as he moved towards Market Square. He wanted to find Mrs Mehlo, but a string of buses from the terminus chased him onto the dirt side roads. Besides, dirt roads were easier on the knees.
Gliding down the street brought back memories of less complicated days, a time when he dreamed of trips to the famed races in Boston, London and Tokyo. For years he told his friends he would become the black Bruce Fordyce, the wispy little iron man who’d won the Comrades Marathon nine times. Monwabisi always joked that he’d be the first ‘real comrade’ to win the race. Those running days were also a time of romance. Long before Fidel and Musa were born, Constantia used to massage his legs after a training run. He’d never felt so relaxed. Her massages were a fingertip harbinger of the love to come.
As he cruised past Jeff Ntoni’s house, the acting chairman asked if Monwabisi was ‘running away from the ANC’.
‘I’m just trying to become more long-winded,’ Monwabisi answered, ‘so I can keep up with the leaders.’
He wove his way to the ring road that circled Northridge and took off. He ran about fifteen minutes before he turned around. When he got within a few blocks of his house, he stopped to walk. His legs were flat. He was no threat to Fordyce’s records, but he’d taken the first step.
Three weeks later, on May Day, Monwabisi ran his first race in thirteen years. Buttons from past campaigns dotted his vest: ‘Fight for a Living Wage’, ‘Stop the LRA’, ‘No to VAT’. He was a mobile advert for the struggles of old.
He finished twenty-first out of 152 runners, sprinting past three fading high-schoolers in the last hundred metres. The best part was the kiss on the cheek from Constantia at the finish line.
‘I’m back,’ he told her. ‘I’m cured. The medication has performed miracles.’
The next week, on payday, Constantia went through what had become the normal routine, cashing her cheque and giving Monwabisi what he needed for his medication. He stuffed the money into his sock. They always did it this way. He had a special arrangement. Mongezi, the chemist, lived in Sivuyile. He brought the pills home, then Monwabisi collected them from there – a way to keep anyone from finding out what medication he was buying.
Monwabisi told Constantia he’d stop at Mongezi’s house during his training run and pick up the pills. He cruised past Mongezi’s without stopping. He’d phone the chemist the next day and make up some story about how the doctor had changed the pharmaceutical cocktail.
The following morning Monwabisi carted his sweat-soaked money to Mr Koen, the stout manager at the local First National Bank. Koen was one of the few whites who’d jumped from the National Party. He was vice-chair of the Northridge ANC branch.
‘Our branch is very busy,’ said Koen. ‘We are collecting books for the children of our members.’
‘That’s a wonderful idea,’ said Monwabisi. ‘I have a book or two I could contribute.’ He had three copies of Marx’s Wages, Price and Profit. He hoped they’d be interested but he’d worry about that later. He had his own economic issues to think about. He reached down and plucked the money out of his sock. ‘I want to open an account,’ he said.
‘We would be proud to open an account for the person who has brought Water for Freedom to Ukusa,’ said Koen. ‘My branch members have told me how they now have taps on their property.’ He took the still-damp notes from Monwabisi.
‘This is our rainy-day money,’ said Monwabisi.
‘Seems like it’s already been out in the rain,’
Koen said. Koen tried to talk Monwabisi into an investment account, promising him that ‘emerging markets’ would bring a very good return.
‘I’m not an investor,’ said Monwabisi. ‘I just want a simple savings account.’
‘ATM card or passbook?’ Koen asked.
‘A passbook will do,’ said Monwabisi.
‘An ATM card is much safer,’ said Koen, ‘and more convenient.’
‘Passbooks have memories,’ said Monwabisi. ‘I still remember my mother stuffing hers inside her blouse when we travelled to the city.’
‘The customer is always right,’ said Koen.
Monwabisi’s new green passbook came in a clear plastic sleeve. If his mother had a sleeve like that when he was growing up, her passbook wouldn’t have looked like a twenty-year-old newspaper.
As he walked out of the bank, Monwabisi’s mind raced with calculations. Three months without medication would give him a bank balance of more than R5 000. If he kept running, Constantia wouldn’t notice a thing. At last they’d have money for a genuine rainy day. In South Africa one never knew when the rain might come.
After opening his account, Monwabisi returned home. A new instalment of Business Days was waiting. Just as he sat down to read, Ntoni dropped by with a copy of a paper written by a ‘Comrade Jit’ from Mmabatho for the magazine of the South African Communist Party. The author claimed that people dying in Uganda, Zambia and South Africa were ‘victims of poverty, not this incurable three letters’. Jit argued that poor nutrition, coupled with inadequate hygiene and water, made millions of Africans susceptible to diseases virtually extinct in the West.
‘Conditions like TB and smallpox have become pandemic in parts of Africa,’ the article added. ‘Often these are wrongly diagnosed as Aids. In fact there may be no virus at all.’
The argument made sense to Monwabisi. No one ever really died from Aids anyway. They passed away from infections that took over when the immune system became weak. What could make an immune system weaker than lack of proper food and water?
‘Aids is part of an imperialist conspiracy,’ said Ntoni. ‘A grand plan of genocide against the African people.’
Ntoni’s words heartened Monwabisi. Comrade Jit had helped him see Aids in the bigger picture. The only mystery was why those R1 700 pills made him feel so much better. Maybe it was all in his head. Imperialism affected the mind of the oppressed in many ways. For the moment he was testing Comrade Jit’s theories in practice. Monwabisi could feel the strength returning to his legs with each day’s run. And the burning in his throat and lungs was disappearing. He would drive that virus into the ground and bring his family out of debt with a systematic training programme like he used to follow in his shop-steward days. It would be a blow against imperialism.