Chapter 32

MONWABISI DECIDED TO WALK to the market and find out if they’d turned on Mrs Mehlo’s water. Before he made it to her stall, Oupa and his friend Mzi intercepted him. Monwabisi readied himself for some disparaging comments. The last time they’d seen him he was driving the A4 and wearing his navy blue suit. Walking through the dusty township streets in his ten-year-old Batas with the wind whipping in his face carved a different image.

‘Comrade RDP,’ said Mzi, ‘we are asking for a favour.’

‘A big one,’ said Oupa. The two boys were wearing matching tracksuits, shiny enough to be brand new. Mrs Mehlo must have gotten in a new shipment from overseas.

‘You two are looking so smart,’ said Monwabisi. A dust cloud rushed past the trio. Monwabisi wiped some dirt from his eyes and led the two boys behind a bus waiting to take people to Umtata. When the wind blew in Sivuyile, any shelter would do.

‘I have had some luck,’ said Mzi.

Monwabisi wondered what kind of luck could strike these two aimless school leavers.

‘He has won the lottery,’ said Oupa. ‘Two big ones.’

‘Two hundred rand?’ asked Monwabisi.

‘Two grand,’ said Mzi. ‘We want to throw a party.’

‘Why not save some for a rainy day?’ asked Monwabisi.

‘A small party,’ said Oupa.

Mzi explained that his mother had agreed to the party at their house but that they must find a responsible adult to act as security. His mother said she couldn’t stand loud music or any of the other nonsense that might come with a party. And she didn’t want any strangers sleeping in the house. Everyone had to be gone by morning.

‘So Comrade RDP,’ said Mzi, ‘we are asking you to be our security guard. All the beer you can drink and plenty of meat.’

‘I don’t take beer any more,’ said Monwabisi. ‘It’s bad for my stomach.’

‘Okay, all the Fanta you can drink,’ said Mzi.

After a few minutes, Monwabisi agreed. It would be a chance to see what the lighties were thinking, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Monwabisi felt like a grandfather as TKZee blasted from the boom box in Mzi’s lounge. All he could think of was sleep. Three bottles of Fanta lay empty by his feet on the floor. The party was winding down. A few people were still dancing.

It had been a remarkably calm affair – only Oupa had lost control. At one point he’d threatened to rattle another boy’s teeth but Monwabisi intervened. Then Oupa passed out on the floor for a couple of hours. Now he was getting his second wind.

Mzi brought another Fanta, but Monwabisi refused. ‘A man can only take so much orange,’ he said.

‘Maybe you should escort Oupa home,’ said Mzi, ‘before he checks out again.’

Monwabisi agreed and began a campaign to convince Oupa it was time to go. After a few minutes Oupa gave in to Monwabisi’s urgings and tucked five beers in a neat row inside his belt.

‘Five for the road,’ said Oupa, patting the tins of Amstel.

‘Masihambe,’ said Monwabisi.

As he and Oupa went out the door, Brenda Fassie came on the box with ‘Vul’indlela’. Oupa howled the refrain as Monwabisi guided him to the street. Monwabisi’s warning that the tsotsis of Sivuyile were becoming more like Mdantsane’s every day did nothing to silence the youngster’s singing.

The sound of the young man opening the first Amstel added the background music to his off-key repeat of that Vul’indlela chorus. At the age of twenty-one, he had the slurred singing voice of a shebeen veteran.

Half a block from Mzi’s, Monwabisi finally got him to quiet down.

‘Forward to Mama Patty’s, forward,’ said Oupa, staggering towards the shebeen. Monwabisi grabbed him by the arm and redirected him homeward.

Oupa went back to his Brenda Fassie tune again, then paused for reflection. ‘One day my mother will sing this song about me,’ he told Monwabisi. ‘She thinks I’m a loafer. I am a loafer but I’ll succeed in life, mfowethu. You’ll see. I’ll have a beautiful wife and a house in the suburbs.’

After a few minutes they arrived at the Mehlos’ house.

‘We must have a nightcap, mfo,’ said Oupa.

‘All right,’ said Monwabisi, ‘but just one.’ He wanted to make sure Oupa didn’t rush off to Mama Patty’s as soon as he lost his escort.

‘I knew you hadn’t joined the bourgeoisie,’ said Oupa.

Monwabisi just smiled. He hadn’t been up this late since his days as a young shop steward. He had staying power then. During those factory occupations they used to sing songs and debate politics all night. They called them siyalalas, or sleep-ins, but it was the wrong name. No one ever slept.

Monwabisi got into the lounge. He thought about lying down on the sofa, but he didn’t dare. Imagine if Mrs Mehlo found him asleep there in the morning. His hand knocked a doily onto the floor as he sat down in a green armchair. He picked it up and carefully draped it over the back cushion.

Oupa switched on Channel O.

‘Ah, kwassa-kwassa,’ said Oupa, trying to imitate the movements of Kanda Bongo Man. The singer was paired off with one of his backup girls.

‘Can you kwassa-kwassa, bhuti?’ Oupa asked.

Monwabisi didn’t reply. The young man tossed him one of the beers from his belt.

‘I can’t drink alone,’ Oupa said. He lit a cigarette and walked into the kitchen, then came back carrying a shoebox full of papers and photos.

‘I want to show you something,’ he said. He rummaged through a stack of yellowed black-and-white photos.

‘Let me see that one,’ said Monwabisi. He’d caught a glimpse of Mrs Mehlo’s wedding picture. She wore a flowing white gown with a veil. She looked almost like Miriam Makeba as a young woman. So beautiful. Age wasn’t kind to the working class. He set the photo on the coffee table as Oupa handed him several others.

‘This is my grandmother,’ said Oupa, pointing to a much thinner version of Mrs Mehlo. ‘She came from Lesotho.’ The young man set the photo on the floor, then kept rummaging through the box.

Monwabisi checked the time. Three thirty. If Oupa started telling family stories, going through these photos could take hours. Constantia would be getting all kinds of ideas by now. He took a healthy sip from the beer.

‘Nkosi yam,’ said Oupa, looking up from the photos at the TV. ‘That’s Angelique Kidjo. She’s a goddess, bhuti. Even without hair.’

Angelique sang about giving out the water while Oupa started to work on beer number three and the last of his Barclay’s.

‘You need some coffee,’ said Monwabisi.

‘Beer is the only drink that mixes with kwassa-kwassa,’ Oupa replied.

Monwabisi took one last look at Mrs Mehlo’s wedding photo. She really was beautiful back then. It was time to leave. He bid his farewell to Oupa, declining the offer of the last Amstel.

Monwabisi decided to run home. The cool night air against his face washed away the effect of the beer. When he was in the union he used to drink a whole crate and still go to work the next day. Now a single can went straight to his head. He picked up his stride, passing a pair of lovers locked in deep passion at the taxi rank. The wind dried the sweat on Monwabisi’s forehead as he found his running rhythm. He forgot about the late-night dangers like tsotsis and drunken drivers. He’d read an article in an American magazine that talked about getting into the ‘zone’. He was sure he’d found that place. It all felt so good he took a detour. Another kilometre or two wouldn’t hurt.

Near the market a pack of dogs charged after him. He pulled to a stop and shouted ‘Voetsek!’ The hounds froze, then slowly beat a retreat.

For the rest of the way home he was in full stride. He pictured a row of fading runners in front of him and stepped up his pace to reach that imaginary finish line.

When he turned the corner into his street, he could see a light was still on in their house. These days his wife usually fell asleep on the couch with some big report lying next to her. At least he couldn’t be jealous of a report.

Constantia was putting on a dress while she talked to someone on speaker phone.

‘I’m coming,’ she said. ‘I’m ringing the fire fighters straight away.’ She closed the phone and hurriedly put on her jacket.

‘There’s a fire at the Mehlos’ place,’ she said. ‘That was one of their neighbours on the phone.’

‘I was just there,’ said Monwabisi. ‘There’s no fire. I left Oupa dancing to kwassa-kwassa.’

‘They say he fell asleep,’ said Constantia. ‘Mama Mehlo rang the fire fighters, no one picked up.’

‘So why are they phoning here?’

‘A councillor must take care of everything, even fires.’

Constantia got the fire chief on her cell. He promised her his men would be there within fifteen minutes. The sweat from Monwabisi’s run hadn’t even dried and here he was rushing through the night again. After a few metres, Constantia started panting. He tried to explain how she must pace herself but she ignored him. This wasn’t just about the fire. She was proving that a councillor cared about her constituency even in the middle of the night. Her panting turned to agonising wheezes but she kept on until the fire came into view.

They found Oupa sitting in the dirt across the street from his house, tears streaming down his face. Bolts of flame shot into the sky from the burning residence.

‘There is no water,’ said Oupa. ‘The card is dry.’ The shoebox full of pictures rested next to him on the ground. Monwabisi saw a photo of a very young Oupa on top of the pile. His front teeth hadn’t even grown in yet.

Mrs Mehlo came walking quickly up the street balancing a white plastic bucket on her head. Two young girls carrying jerrycans trotted right behind her. They all emptied their containers onto the blazing house. A bit of the flame calmed for a few seconds, then shot back into the air. Three other women came with buckets of water. Their efforts brought the same result. They were attacking an elephant with a slingshot.

Mr Ximiya, the Mehlos’ neighbour, yanked his hosepipe out of his yard and tried to make it stretch far enough to reach the blaze. The water from the nozzle shot up in the air and landed in a puddle several metres short of the flames.

‘I need another hosepipe, people!’ he shouted. ‘Khawulezani.’

With sirens sounding in the distance, Mrs Mehlo charged towards Monwabisi. As she drew near, she lunged, grabbing him around the throat. He pulled her hands off him.

‘Because of you I’ve lost everything!’ she screamed. ‘Only Mama Ximiya has extra water. Others are dry.’

She clapped Monwabisi in the chest. Another blow caught him across the cheek. Monwabisi stepped back and gently blocked Mrs Mehlo’s flailing arms. He’d allowed himself to be carried away by R4000, a car and some new suits. He should have seen that the prepaids would lead to this. But Mthetho and Peter never spoke of cut-offs or fires at the London Towers.

‘Thixo ongunaphakade, bawo wasezulwini!’ Mrs Mehlo screamed as she fell to the ground. ‘Eternal God, our heavenly father, we bless thy holy name.’

Mrs Mehlo’s entreaties faded to a whisper once the fire truck turned the corner. The flashing lights brought a red glimmer to the tiny windows of the nearby houses.

Constantia moved the people away from the front garden to make space for the fire truck. The force of the water conquered the flames while it spread the family’s possessions across the burnt-out dirt. A melted enamel bowl full of blackened umngqusho skidded into what used to be the back garden. Within minutes the plot had been reduced to a lake of ash and scalded memorabilia of a once proud family.

Constantia, Monwabisi and a few neighbours stayed with the Mehlos until dawn, helping them sift through the remains.

Just after sunrise Mrs Mehlo apologised to Monwabisi, assuring him she knew he wasn’t really to blame. He shrugged off her apology.

‘We are thinking only of you and your family,’ he said. He could still feel the sting of that clap to the chest, those rough hands gripping his neck. No one from the working class had ever assaulted him before.

‘I just lost my senses,’ she said, ‘wanting to blame someone.’

‘It’s time now for you to rest, mama,’ Monwabisi replied.

‘At least I haven’t lost my inventory,’ she said. ‘I store my clothes at Mama Patty’s. I pay her R10 a month.’

‘You are fortunate, mama,’ said Monwabisi.

Mrs Mehlo went back to the shoebox. She flipped through the birth certificates and a few photos of Oupa when he was in school.

‘My wedding picture is gone,’ she said, ‘and the last photo of my mother.’

At the bottom was the yellow indigent form Constantia had given her to fill out. She tore it to shreds, threw the pieces down and ground them into the ashes of her house with her foot.

‘Never again will I fall for politicians’ tricks,’ she said. She put everything back in the box and wrapped a rubber band around the outside to keep the top on.

‘I warned that boy about drinking,’ she told Monwabisi, ‘so many times. But youngsters today don’t listen to elders. They think we are silly old fools.’

Mrs Mehlo and Monwabisi picked through the remains of the house one more time, managing to salvage a few pieces of cutlery and some pots. One metal bed frame could probably be scrubbed clean.

‘Children these days have too much freedom,’ said Mrs Mehlo.

She knelt in the ashes of her bedroom. ‘Let the Lord work in his mysterious ways,’ she said. ‘Praise God maybe umntwana wam’ will learn from this, will grow up now. At least we are alive. Praise the Lord.’

‘It’s not the boy’s fault,’ said Monwabisi. ‘In the old days we had hosepipes. We would have put it out with water from your tap.’

‘Children these days,’ said Mrs Mehlo. ‘I just don’t understand them. Too much freedom is a dangerous thing.’