7
DAMAGE
We had done the rounds: Mfundo’s home, Lwando’s home and our soccer captain, Phumlani’s home. Even the old man, Ludwe, who is always present at our soccer practice as our unofficial coach, didn’t escape our thieving hands. In the last year we stole a total of six sheep from Tat’uLudwe’s kraal. He is still searching for his missing sheep.
Different sangomas took turns to lie to him. One told him that a businessman from Bholothwa, a nearby village, stole the sheep. One told him that a farmer from Gxoterha stole them. Those must be fake sangomas. We ate all those sheep. The skin, skulls and feet of all the sheep lie on the bottom of Ngwengwe River.
“Mpasele, pass to him! Pass the ball!” I hear the screams.
“USabelo uyedwa, he’s free, pass to him.”
Mandisi makes the ball curve from the centre line. I chest-trap it and let it bounce at my feet. I put my head up to look for orange bibs matching mine. Two boys, strong and skilful, are defending.
Shay’ ithembisa to the left. One runs to fetch like a dog while the ball stays at my feet. I shield the remaining defender with my body.
“Koshiyana oomam’ ukondla – it’s a battle of whose mother fed their son best!” I hear the voices scream. He is not giving me much space. He is closely guarding my right leg.
No more options! I kick the ball up with my left foot and boot it hard in the direction of the opposing side’s keeper. The black-and-white Adidas ball curves. Tat’uLudwe!
I nail my feet to the ground. Fear grips me. Goose flesh takes over my whole body. Tat’uLudwe is leaning against his walking stick, right on the touchline. He always wants both his hands to be free so that he can wave them in the air. Then you know that he wants you to push forward. He is passionate about the game. But this time his arms remain folded. Why?
I freeze. Tat’uLudwe’s body twists. He falls face down on the hard soil. His walking stick digs a deep line in the dirt. My curve ball has gone straight for his stick.
The whole team runs to him. He leans heavily on Lwando as we help him up. As soon as he is on his feet we pull each other back.
“Sapha kwedini, give the ball to me,” Tat’uLudwe demands. He grabs Lwando with his left hand. With his right, he draws out an Okapi knife from the back pocket of his pants.
“Intoni, andifuni,” Lwando shakes his head. He never gives up easily.
“Give him the fucking ball, Lwando. Don’t you see he’s got a knife. Stupid man!” Phumlani, our captain, screams.
Phfffff, our ball goes pap as Tat’uLudwe slices a big hole in the leather. That was the last of our decent soccer balls. He must suspect something about us and those sheep.
“Tell your coach to come see me at my house,” Tat’uLudwe says, then turns and limps home. We strip off our soccer bibs and throw them in the club kit bag. Then we go our separate ways. Mfundo and Lwando accompany me home.
“Ntwana, we have not been to your kraal yet,” Lwando says.
“No, no, remember what I said. I told you, we only have a few sheep in my kraal … only seven mfowethu …” I blurt out. I can’t let them come to our kraal.
“That was last year, mfethu. You have new little lambs now. It is not fair that we steal from every other home, including ours, and not yours.” I just look at Lwando when he says this.
When we reach my home I don’t say goodbye to them but just fling the gate open and walk inside our yard. I don’t look back.
“Were you with those naughty boys again?” my sister Nonyaniso wants to know, as I walk into the house.
“Voetsek! I don’t say anything about your friends or about that nerd of a boyfriend, Sihle.” I know I am being nasty but I can’t stop myself. Nonyaniso is always at me about something.
“Hmmm, let me see. He is handsome, has a good job, is well mannered. Oh ja, does not smoke dagga. Does that make him a nerd? No! So buzz off, bhuti.”
“Ce … ag, handsome! You don’t know what handsome is.”
“I know he does not look like you or any of your friends. Mmmm, his hair is neatly cut, he has soft hands …”
“Shut up. Say one more word and I will hit you.” I can’t bear the sound of her voice, comparing me to the perfect Sihle.
“And you think I won’t hit you back? Ha! You must be mad, bhuti!”
She stands, her hands on the hips of her slender body, challenging me. Some of her hair has come loose from the band she has tied it back with, but she doesn’t bother to push it back from her forehead. Her eyes are focused on mine.
“Qalisa ngoku, go on – start now if you are going to hit me,” she says, taking a step towards me.
“You think you can fight me only because you know Mama will take your side. She always does. It makes me sick.” It’s true, my mother always takes Nonyaniso’s side.
“Ooh, ag shame, wena. I wish you could be a gentleman. The brother I used to know. You have changed. Look at you, getting ready to hit a girl. Shame on you, Sabelo.”
“Shut up, I have more important things to think about.” I push past her to my room and slam the door shut.
Mama has been making me wait for months for a pair of new shoes, but she keeps buying Nonyaniso new clothes. It isn’t fair.
Then I remember Lwando’s words. I have to find a way to stop the Black Tights – as we call our small gang – from hitting my kraal tonight.
~•~
“Aaahhh, Mama, yizo bona, come see.”
Nonyaniso shouts across the yard. My mother is working in her vegetable garden a distance from the house. Nonyaniso is standing in the doorway to the wooden shack that we use to store wood. I can see Mama. She is just filling the last watering can from the drum of rain water. Every late afternoon her small vegetable garden has to be watered. She trusts no one else to do the job, but her.
I stride over to where Nonyaniso is standing waving her hands in front of her nose. Green flies swarm around a yellow plastic bag at her feet. As I come close I want to vomit because the smell is so bad. Inside the bag is a rotting leg of lamb crawling with worms and maggots. It has been there for two weeks. I was high on dagga when I hid it and I forgot about it soon after.
“Biza, umama.”
“No, no, no, just you wait.”
“What do you mean, Sabelo? Mama has to see this.”
Nonyaniso starts to walk across the yard towards Mama. I push her back. My hands grip the old dress she likes to wear when she is cleaning. I hear the sound of it ripping in my hands.
“Don’t tell Mama about this. She will kill me.”
“No, she will just put you right.”
“No, she’ll kill me. You don’t want that, do you?”
“What is that in the shed?”
“That is a leg of lamb. From a friend.”
“Sabelo, how could you? Let go of my dress. Did you steal that sheep? Why is it hidden?”
“Hayi, hayikhona, my sister.”
“It better not be stolen. Before you know it, you will be in a gang and put all our lives in danger.”
“Trust me. No gang,” I lie.
“OK then, I won’t tell mother. Just don’t do it again.”
That evening I run to the old dilapidated house where our gang always meets.
“Guys, guess who I just saw drinking at MaDlamini’s?” I say to the boys.
“Wait, your dad. Or wait, no, he is dead, it won’t be him,” Lwando says sarcastically and bursts out laughing.
“That’s not funny, Lwando.” I did not like his joke about my father.
“Ja, sorry, mfethu. This one is high. Ubone bani, who did you see?” Mfundo asks.
“Tat’uLudwe.”
“Who? Oh yeah, he must have got paid by the Lwanas. He just finished making a shit load of mud bricks for them.”
“Yabona ke, Sabelo, now you are talking,” Lwando says passing the zol to me.
Every time I touch the zol something feels like it is rising in my throat. It’s like my body is resisting it in some way.
When I was younger umama used to do isikhungo, the evening prayer, every night before we went to bed. I used to join her. Now, instead of praying I am out smoking zol. She still does the prayer; I am just not there. Mama believes in nothing else but her God. I sometimes don’t know what God she prays to. She treats me like dirt. Nonyaniso gets all the nice things.
“Hey, hey, Sabelo. Stop dreaming. Puff, puff and pass that zol,” Lwando complains.
“Oh yeah, sorry,” I say and lean back against the mud wall of the ruined old house.
“Makazilelwe, let us wear our black stockings over our heads when we steal tonight in memory of Sabelo’s father,” says Lwando. We always wear stockings over our heads so that no one can recognise us. I don’t know why Lwando keeps bringing up my father’s name now.
“Hayi, no, Lwando. Don’t say such a thing,” Mfundo says, before I get a chance to say something to Lwando.
“Relax pantyhose gents, you stress too much. Did Sabelo not complain about his father always hitting him when he was still alive? OK, let us put on our black tights for Ludwe,” Lwando changes his tune.
“That sounds like a plan,” I agree, relieved that the gang’s attention is now off my kraal and my family sheep.
Mfundo nods. He leans back against the wall.
Lwando’s deep drag on the zol makes it go raa trr trr nqa nqa, nqaa nqa. I let him enjoy it without asking him to pass. Ashes fall on his left thigh. His eyes almost close as he drags the last bit of ganja. He smokes it until it burns his fingers then he throws what is left onto the newspaper at his side. Dazed, he stares at the wall. Slowly he gets up and dusts the ashes off his pants. He keeps dusting, even when the ash is gone. I feel his pain as he hits his thighs again and again.
“Aarg … pthaaa!” He spits right onto the wall – close range – then turns around. Some of his phlegm is still stuck to his chin.
“Sis maan, Lwando, sula isilevu, wipe your chin,” I say to him, turning to look away.
“Where is your black stocking?” he demands of Mfundo. “Why aren’t you ready for tonight’s mission?”
Mfundo sits up, “About tonight … I don’t understand …”
“What don’t you understand about putting on black tights over your head?” Lwando asks.
“Imission yanamhlanje mfethu, today’s mission …” Mfundo continues. But then he stops. Lwando’s eyes are fixed on his. He drops his head.
“Speak!” shouts Lwando. “Are you scared to rob one old man now? Robbing one man is nothing. My aunt tells me that gangs in Cape Town do the craziest things. I am talking gang rapes, stealing cars, drive-by shootings, crazy shit like that. Now that is hard-core gangster. That way you get money, earn respect. And some gangster-loving by your gang.”
I shake my head when Lwando says this.
“I just don’t get why we should rob an old man … twice …” continues Mfundo, looking back up at Lwando now.
“Mfundo, Mfundo, I don’t have a cent in my pocket. Is that fair?” demands Lwando. “No, no, no, we said it was OK to steal sheep. Ja, we said we are hungry so we will help ourselves kulemihlambi, to these herds. It is time to take over this whole village,” Lwando declares, looking at me and then turning to face Mfundo. “We need to work together as a solid group. I am beginning to think you are weak, mfethu.”
In that moment I wish I could leave the Black Tights. Things have changed. I don’t like how things are going, or what Lwando is saying now.
“OK, OK, OK, stop! I am putting on the tights,” says Mfundo as Lwando threatens him.
We pull the tights over our faces to mask them, and run outside. Dogs bark and howl.
Near Tat’uLudwe’s kraal we wail like wild dogs in the grass, on all fours. On our toes and palms we move forward near the footpath. No words. We wait.
~•~
Tat’ uLudwe comes singing from a distance:
Ndidlaaaa,
Amaqhosha ebhatyi yaaaam
Andinxili, ndiyashusha
(I am spending my money, my money. I am not getting drunk, I am just warm under the influence.)
Tat’uLudwe lifts his walking stick in the air from time to time. He has a terrible limp but I can see that when push comes to shove he will use his stick as a weapon.
“Pssst! Down, down,” whispers Lwando. “Come closer,” he adds.
My body stretches just above the grass, my palms open on the ground. I move silently.
“Mfundo, go for his pockets; hold them tight. Don’t give him a chance to pull out his Okapi.”
“OK,” responds Mfundo.
“Sabelo, go from behind and grab the stick.”
“Ndik’bambile, I got that.”
“And I … I will be up in his face …”
Like a pack of hyenas waiting to attack, we lie flat on the ground. When Tat’uLudwe is a few metres from us, even less, vumbululu, quickly we get up.
“Yintoni na, what is this!? Where are your faces?” Tat’uLudwe cries, staring wildly at us. He can’t make out who is who behind our stocking masks.
Like a flash of lightning I feel the whip and pain as he hooks my arm with his walking stick. Mfundo has buried his hands deep in Tat’ uLudwe’s pockets.
“Ssshhh,” Lwando warns Tat’uLudwe.
“Kwekhu madoda, zizithunzela ezivelaphi ezi, where do these ghosts come from?” Tat’uLudwe cries.
Lwando hisses like a snake next to the old man’s face.
“Oh please, don’t kill me,” Tat’uLudwe begs.
“Then respect me, hey wena, ungazong’hlanyisa, don’t make me mad,” Lwando raises his voice.
Where did that come from? I ask myself when I see in the dark shadows the shape of a butcher’s knife. Lwando waves it about in front of Tat’uLudwe’s face.
“Let go of the stick. Voetsek! Let go.”
I feel Tat’uLudwe’s arm release, becoming softer. Only now I realise that I have not disguised my voice.
“Turn his pockets inside out,” Lwando says.
We freeze for a moment. I can’t believe this is happening.
“Hurry up!” Lwando screams at us.
I throw Tat’uLudwe’s stick on the ground. I take both his arms and lock them behind him.
“Oh yini, why? Imali yabantwana bam, my kid’s money,” cries Tat’uLudwe when Mfundo goes for the pockets inside the jacket.
“Sakwenyusa amafu, we will send you past the clouds. Shut up, old man!” Lwando shouts at him.
“All pockets emptied to me,” says Mfundo.
“Good job, ndoda,” says Lwando. He waves the knife again, in front of Tat’uLudwe’s eyes.
“Now, you listen to me very carefully, old man,” says Lwando. “Uyandiva! Do you hear me? Kneel down. Lie with your face down. Don’t move. Hey!” Lwando raises his hand with the knife. Tat’uLudwe staggers backwards. He leans on me. He feels heavy now.
“Lala phantsi, xhego, lay down, old man, flat on your stomach,” I whisper into his ear. My voice is hoarse. He goes down on his knees with both his hands on the ground. He places his face on the grass. A soft cry escapes his lips.
When he is on the ground Lwando turns and runs. We follow, down towards the river. In the long grass there we count out the money. Then we head back to the old house to change back into our normal clothes. We split up the money and head to our homes. Our night’s business done, I hope.
As I walk up the path to my house I see a figure standing in the shadows next to the new electricity poles. It is Sihle. He must be waiting for Nonyaniso. I pass him, but I don’t say anything to him. I walk in through the gate and take the dogs off the leash. If he comes to Nonyaniso’s window, the dogs will get him.
I go into the house and lock the door behind me then strike a match. A yellow flame bursts into the darkness.
“Mhhm, you smell like a burning farm of dagga. I think it is time I reported you to Mama.” It is Nonyaniso. She is standing in the dark waiting for me. Did she see Sihle outside? I hope not. I won’t tell her that he is waiting by the pole.
“I think it is time you shut your mouth and go to sleep. It’s not like Mama cares about me anyway,” I reply to her, quickly.
“You are you, Sabelo. My lovely brother. You should not be messing around with dagga.”
“And you should be out of my business.”
“Ahm, sokhe sibone, we will see.”
“Are you going to your Nosiviwe’s party?” I ask her.
“I will only be there during the day. In the evening I will be with …”
“Sihle, let me guess. I don’t want to see him near our home, Nonyaniso. That is disrespectful to me and Mama, you know.”
Still, I don’t tell her that Sihle is outside. I won’t do that. No, I won’t.
In my room I lie on my bed listening for the sound of stones on the zinc sheets. Sihle had done this once, trying to get Nonyaniso’s attention by throwing small stones on the roof in her room. But everything is quiet.
~•~
The next afternoon we are back on the dusty soccer pitch like nothing happened last night.
“Majita, guys, we are wasting our time with playing football. We are not going to turn pros anyway,” says Lwando when we get back to our hideout, our old ruined house behind the village.
We don’t answer. Lwando has become a ‘sort of’ leader overnight. We allow it. Nobody crosses him. Overnight it has become a case of what he says goes.
“Nosiviwe is having a birthday party tomorrow. You know what the Black Tights have to do?” says Lwando.
“What?”
“A gang has to do what a gang has to do. You boys are sissies.”
Mfundo looks at me.
“Boys, we gate crash the party and take control.”
“It’s not like these girls will go there with money. What would the Black Tights want from them?” asks Mfundo.
“Mfundo, Mfundo, Mfundo … follow and learn, my boy,” replies Lwando.
I think that Lwando has gone mad as he cups his crotch with his left hand to make his point. “If you guys do what I am thinking tonight, then I will know you own this place. That way you will be respected.”
He stands above us, like a teacher. His right hand grips my left shoulder: “Hear me – untouchable boys,” he says, shaking my shoulder. His foot stomps on the ground with each word.
We remain silent.
~•~
The next day when I come home from watching a soccer game, umama ukwelite inyama yehagu, she has bought pork meat on credit. Idombolo, the dumplings, sit fat and tasty on the enamel plate in the kitchen. Nonyaniso is not going to start a fight with big brother, now. Not when there is such good food. It’s all she can think about, drooling over the meat.
“Thathani ukutya, take your food,” says Mama.
We take the enamel plates that are set out on the checked red-and-white tablecloth, heaped with meat and dumplings.
“Ah, bhuti maan,” Nonyaniso says.
I look at her, surprised. Why am I bhuti today all of a sudden? Every other day she screams my name at the top of her voice. She has been telling me how her friends and her have nothing good to say about me any more.
“Ah, bhuti maan,” she says again.
“What is it?”
“Khawusike kaloku, please cut me another piece!”
“Nonyaniso, you have a plate full of meat in front of you.”
“I need to eat a lot, if I’m going to dance at Nosiviwe’s early tonight. After that I am going to be with …” she says and laughs.
I remember that it’s the party tonight. And I remember Lwando grabbing his crotch as he told us what he planned to do. And I want to warn Nonyaniso. But I remain silent.
~•~
It is still early evening when I meet the gang in the deserted building. With some of the money robbed from Tat’uLudwe, we have bought two bankies of dagga.
“Are we wearing tights for tonight’s mission?” asks Mfundo.
“Are you fucking mad? How are we going to a party with black tights over our heads?” asks Lwando.
I look around the group. We are all wearing our best clothes for the party. I have on a red hoodie, skinny jeans and my only pair of white sneakers. Only mother knows when I will get new shoes.
After we’ve smoked up the room we step out into the cool night and make our way to the party.
The moon comes up, full now from behind the distant hills. It gives us tall shadows as we walk on the footpaths cutting through the village to Nosiviwe’s house. Our left hands are deep in our pockets, our right hands wave as we walk.
Dogs bark as we walk past the houses. We are not too worried now about barking dogs. We are dressed like humans, not ghosts with black tights over our heads. Our mission has not started.
Nosiviwe stops us at the door, “No, you are not invited,” she says to Lwando, her hand against his chest pushing lightly, like she’s only half serious …
“All right, all right,” Lwando puts his hands up. “What do we do to get in?”
“Nothing, just go.”
“Your house music is bad, man. Useless. We can go get our latest CDs for you. We will bring some vodka as well,” says Lwando, and flashes her one of his charming smiles.
Nosiviwe runs inside. In a few minutes she comes back.
“Deal. Bring your music and vodka. But don’t think we have anything for you – maybe just a piece of sausage each,” she adds.
We walk away to Lwando’s place.
“Aha, ha ha! A piece of sausage each!” laughs Lwando.
“At least that is something. Don’t be ungrateful, Lwando,” I say to him, getting irritated by his new-found arrogance.
We get the CDs and bottle of vodka and head back to Nosiviwe’s place. The party is filling up when we get there and we have to push to get through the door.
~•~
We have just connected the sound system to more speakers when the girls want to move the party outside.
“No, no, no. Keep the party inside. That way you won’t have more uninvited people like us,” says Lwando, laughing.
I pull out the bottle of vodka from the front of my pants and place it on the table. Lwando turns the music up loud. The girls start dancing.
After a long while of dancing and drinking, some of Nosiviwe’s friends start to leave. Soon there are only her close girlfriends left. Two girls remain. Three including the birthday girl.
“Do you see the key hanging on the door?” asks Lwando, speaking loudly into my ear.
“Ja,” I reply.
He puts his ear close to my mouth, “Huh? I can’t hear you.”
“Yes, I see the key,” I repeat.
“Just now I will give you a signal to lock the door. I will need Mfundo to hit the light bulb with the broom behind the door just after …”
“Yes,” I say, pretending to be dancing next to Lwando. “Wait, wait, wait! And then what happens in the dark?” I ask, a little worried now.
“In the dark, my friend, in the dark! In the dark we get what we want. See those thighs dancing there – you want to be between those legs, don’t you?”
I want to. What guy wouldn’t? I have always wanted to have sex with Cikizwa. But she always tells me that she does not date boys from the village where she lives.
She always asks me, “Why do you love me, Sabelo?”
How do I answer that? “Because you have slightly bow legs, a round ass and the most beautiful lips?” I don’t know.
But what Lwando has in mind is wrong. He does not seem to care. I know this will be our initiation. Between myself and Mfundo, whoever does not do as he says will be punished, kicked out of the group.
At least Nonyaniso is not here. She must have left the party early to be with Sihle, just as she has been bragging about from days ago already. Today, her disappearing with Sihle is good. For once I am glad she is with him.
Tonight I am on a combination I have never tried before. We smoked two bottle kops and a fat zol before the party. Then vodka is added to the mix – a lot of it. My head is spinning. I feel reckless. I want what I want. I start asking myself: Why would parents leave girls alone at a party? Leave them to the care of neighbours? Not such a good idea. Where are the neighbours now?
Nosiviwe’s parents have already celebrated her birthday in the afternoon. Now they have gone to relatives for the evening, leaving the young ones to party. Part of me wishes her parents would come back. Before it is too late.
Lwando gives me the signal. I go to the door. Mfundo is dancing next to the cupboard. He looks ridiculous. But we are all high as kites. The girls don’t notice our movements.
Just as I get to the door it opens. I freeze. Nonyaniso is standing in the doorway, a big smile on her face.
“No, no, no, you can’t come in.” I try to push her back outside.
Nosiviwe comes running to the door. “Let her in, chocho, chommie yam, my friend!” she screams happily. They hug. I turn to look at Lwando.
He mimes the words, “Vala ucango, close the door.”
Fuck it, I hate Sihle even more. Why isn’t he with Nonyaniso tonight? Why is she here?
I close the door. Mfundo hits the light bulb. The room is in total darkness. The girls run screaming into one of the bedrooms which has lights on. Screaming.
Lwando and Mfundo follow them. Lwando has the butcher’s knife he threatened Tat’uLudwe with in his hand.
Hesitantly, I open the door of the small cupboard on the wall that houses the electricity switchboard. I flick the switch down. Now the whole house is in darkness except for the light on Lwando’s cellphone. He is shining it at the girls, who are huddled in one corner of the bedroom.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up! You are making my head go mad,” he shouts.
“What are you doing?” Nosiviwe cries.
“This is a knife. I will cut all of you if you go on screaming like that.”
The girls keep quiet. I can make out their shapes huddled against the wall. I search for Nonyaniso. I want to try to pull her to the front room. No time. Lwando and Mfundo are already pulling the girls into a line.
“Make one more sound. Refuse to play with us and all of you are dead,” Lwando says again. We pin the girls down.
I feel for Cikizwa. No – not this one. It is not her. I can make out the shape of her hair in the dark. I feel the next one. I think it is her. But, someone is already on top of her.
I move to the next one in the line. I try to feel for the face of the girl underneath me. It is wet with tears. I slide her panties off. She cries silently as I carry on.
“Move,” I hear Lwando’s demanding voice.
I am not sure who the girl is I have just had sex with. But it is too late to try to find out. Lwando is pulling me up. I think I hear Nonyaniso’s cry, but which one is she? It is pitch dark.
I get up, push past Mfundo, out into the night.
~•~
I lie on my back. My head is aching. I think of Lwando. One of the prison warders told me he is fighting for his life in hospital. He was attacked by the parents of one of the girls raped at Nosiviwe’s party. I don’t know what happened to Mfundo. I have heard nothing about him.
All I can remember of the day after Nosiviwe’s party is a group of women from the village pointing at me as I walked to the old dilapidated house behind the village. Our spot. Then there were shouts from behind me. Police were running towards me – one of them was the father of one of the girls who was raped. No wonder they came so soon. How could we have been so stupid? That is the last thing I remember, before I came around in the back of a police van.
I had just been with Nonyaniso at home. She had been crying at the kitchen table. She did not want to talk to me. She did not want to look at me. Why hadn’t she spent the night with Sihle? Why had she come back to the party?
I had managed to keep the Black Tights away from my kraal. But now something far worse had happened. Tat’uLudwe did not even greet me the next morning. He must have suspected that I was one of the boys that robbed him. He didn’t know the half of it, yet.
Now I am in prison, behind bars, locked away. No money for bail. Awaiting trial. The girl’s father made sure of that.
“Bhantinti, prisoner, we have been calling you,” shouts one of the men in my cell. His shirtless body has tattoos everywhere. He has a big chest. Strong arms. He is missing two front teeth. From time to time his tongue slides out of that gate between his teeth. He does this just before words come out his mouth.
“Go and eat,” he says to me, again sticking his white tongue through the gap. Sies maan, he makes me sick. All the other prisoners have moved to the dining area. He is sitting and eating meat from an ice-cream container. As I walk out I can feel his eyes on my back. I am scared. I know what happens at night in prison.
In the dining area, men in orange overalls lean forward over the tables. Young men, some very ugly, and some handsome, eat greedily.
I collect my food from the counter where a skinny man stands with a big spoon, ladling it out. Phthaaa, cabbage cooked with water and rice, land on my plate.
As I sit down with a group of men I think of what my teacher said. She told me that people who are ugly inside commit crimes.
“You are beautiful inside, Sabelo. Jongi nto. Don’t do this to yourself. If you are not at school at your age, the chances are that you will do crime.”
We had been talking about my school record. I had the highest number of days absent in the previous term and had made up my mind by then that I was leaving school.
I look at the men around me. The three in front of me are physically ugly to look at. All damaged. With each of them I do the same thing, clean them up in my imagination to get to what they had been before.
I remove the scar off the cheek of one, put an eye back where one had been gouged out. I look at him again and see the man he once was. I am going mad.
I take the tattoos off the face of one. I put back the missing skin on part of his nose. I see a son of some parents I do not know; I see the son he had been before.
I look at two other men. I don’t have to work so hard to make them pretty. People don’t do crime because they are physically ugly, but sometimes crime makes them ugly inside.
Mother made me ugly on the inside. She gave Nonyaniso twice the love she needed. Some of mine was in there also. I turned to our gang, for brothers, people to look up to – for love.
“You are a slow eater, neh,” one of the prisoners says.
“Ja,” I reply to him.
A strike on my left shoulder sends strips of shock down to my toes. I turn and looked into the one eye of the man sitting next to me. He points to where his one eye is missing.
“This is from trying to resist,” he says. “You can’t be a free man here. You will never be, inside these walls. Those men over there are responsible for this,” he says pointing to the hole again.
I can’t reply to him. I just scoop the cold cabbage from my plate. I swallow it down without chewing.
Mama has not been to visit me in prison. She still does not care.
The next day I sit crying the whole day. I am scared, seeing how my life has turned out. I have arrived at my destination too fast. I took a one-way road. I am going to die in here, I think.
Mfundo is confirmed dead. Killed by an angry mob. I can’t believe that I won’t see his smile again; that we won’t compete to see who can blow the biggest dagga smoke ring again, make circles in the air; or who could get a sheep out of the kraal the quickest.
First we had competed about who would score the most goals for the team. I wish it had stayed like that.
It is even worse that I couldn’t say goodbye to him. If Lwando had the chance to go to the funeral, he would slip in anqotyi, dagga, in that coffin, a Nas CD and a picture of a red gusheshe, BMW E20i, Mfundo’s dream car. I think these things sadly to myself as I lie in the flea-riddled excuse of a bed. I want to die.
On the one side of the wall is scrawled gang graffiti: ‘26 Money over bitches’. On my side, ‘28 Blood thirsty’.
“Sabelo, when you walk into a room, people must warm up to you, so smile a little. People must never suspect that you may steal from them.” I keep hearing Lwando’s voice in my mind, remembering the times he bossed me and Mfundo.
“Sabelo Jonginto, Sabelo Jonginto vuka s’botshwa; get up, prisoner!” The voice bounces off the walls off the corridor, calling my name.
Five men in beige clothes and brown shoes walk in. They shove me down the corridor. We walk into a room with one table and two chairs. One prison warder remains with me. He does not talk a lot. He is a one-word man, “Sit.”
A coloured woman walks in. She is wearing a cream linen suit and black shoes, a slight smile on her face. Her damp hair is tied back in a ponytail. She hugs a blue file close to her chest with her left hand. In her right hand she dangles car keys. I envy her bitterly. Car keys to me mean freedom.
The prison warder closes the door and stands dead silent, next to me.
“My name is Ingrid. I am your state-appointed lawyer,” the woman says pulling up a seat.
“Has it been raining outside?” I ask her.
“Yes, for two days now.”
I think of Lwando. Tall, very dark-skinned and blood-red-eyed Lwando Mpahlayimbi. He loved it when it rained. Stealing sheep was easier. People went to bed early. He also liked his meat on cold, rainy days.
“When it rains, you are not going to see people on the outside, no, because people of this village melt.” We would laugh and laugh when he said this.
The woman slides her arm forward. I look her in the eye, and then at the prison warder, and back at her again.
“How are you today?”
“Phuh, do you wanna know how I feel? I …”
“Hey, hey, don’t be cheeky with her,” the warder interrupts. A few more words from him this time.
“Meneer, I will show you what cheek is!”
I crack then. I bang both my hands on the table, push it so that it shoves against the woman. I get up.
The warder speaks fast on the walkie-talkie. Two other guards rush in. They ask the woman to give them a few minutes. She gets up and walks outside holding her stomach.
One of them pulls a chair towards the corner. He jumps on the chair and pulls the surveillance camera sideways so that it faces the wall.
“Mthimkhulu, uyicokise, kodwa ingophi; hit him good, but he must not bleed,” he says to the one as he hops back down from the chair.
I am hit with a baton twice, hard on the left shoulder. I feel another warder’s shoe ram against my back as I am pushed forward. I fall flat on the hard concrete floor. Kicks and punches land on my thin body.
“Uxolo bhuti, I am sorry!” I scream.
One of them has the black sole of his brown shoe pressed against my cheek. They carry on punishing me severely. I start crying.
“Wipe those tears and get ready to talk to the lady,” one says. I get up and quickly sit on the chair. I’m now in excruciating pain. But ready to listen to the lady. The two warders walk out. One remains standing next to me, dead silent. The woman walks back in.
“Please, please tell me what it is that I must do for you,” I beg her.
“We need to think about what it is that you can do for yourself, Sabelo,” she says.
Honestly, I want to cry when she says this. But that might be mistaken for ill-discipline and I will be at the mercy of three big men again.
“Do yourself a favour, Sabelo. Don’t cause trouble like that. Don’t lie to me. You are young and a first offender, so the court may treat you leniently. Your family needs you,” she says and opens the blue file again.
“Sabelo, I will ask you some questions. If there is anything you don’t understand please ask me, to repeat or explain. At the end you will get a chance to ask me if you have any questions. I also have a letter to give to you from your sister. But before we start, is there anything you would like to tell me?”
“No.”
After the questions the woman hands me a letter from Nonyaniso and walks out of the door.
I hesitate, waiting for an instruction from the warder. “I tell you when to shit, sleep and eat. You tell me vokol.” This is what he told me after the beating. “I decide how much sunshine you get in a week.” He did not need to tell me that he is my Lord, vader. I know I will never disobey him again.
“Get up, we are heading back to your cell,” he says in his deep voice.
We walk down the stuffy corridor. In front of BB278 he opens the gates with two long keys.
I think of the woman’s words, “… Tell me no lies.”
I think about what I have just told her – my own version of what happened on the night of the party. I think of Nonyaniso. I don’t want to read what she wrote in this letter.
This is a version of the story, I think, that will haunt me forever.
Nonyaniso writes in the letter that she is going to Cape Town. She does not say anything about the night of the party.
~•~
My sister hates me. I have a friend who died. Black Tights did not pay me. The love from a gang always has a condition. A stupid initiation. A quick road to this dirty prison.
I want to start all over again. Even if it means Mama, our mother, still favours Nonyaniso. I will be thankful just for a plate of food every night. Even some meat, that Mama cannot pay for upfront. But she makes debt and brings it home. I will stay at home. Be good. But for now I must pay, pay a lot in this hell.
Thixo ndincede, Lord help me.
Discussion questions
• What are some of the reasons that Sabelo became part of the gang, do you think?
• Do you think there is a chance that he will change his life? What makes you think so?
About the author
Sonwabiso Ngcowa was born in the Eastern Cape and grew up there and in Masiphumelele in Cape Town. He completed his Matric at Fish Hoek High school in 2002. In 2011 he made a brave decision to follow his passion for writing. He resigned from his work at the Standard Bank and is now studying a BA at UCT. His first novel In Search of Happiness was published by Cover2Cover Books in 2014. He has had short stories published on FunDza’s mobi network and print anthologies.
Being a mentor …
I saw a bit of myself in Asavela as my mentee, he is just great. Asavela came with this talent in him. He knew the angles of his story and could explain them. He directed the movie. As his coach, I just had to guide and nurture this talent. Big Ups to Asavela Peko! Asavela has the ability to capture a character that truly reflects lived human experiences. His fiction reflects real everyday life. Asavela came up with beautiful angles to our stories. In him I am convinced that we have a future African writer.