by Javi Reddy
“James, I can’t remember how to play football.”
Chapter 3
23 September 2013. 2:07 PM
There is a drink for every occasion. Beer for the big game. White spirits on a scorching day. Whiskey as the hopeful companion on a lonesome evening. James had drunk them all, time and time again, but he did not know what to drink after this. As far as clichés went, there was a certain type attached to amnesia. It happened in the movies or was read about in books. The memory loss that the hero/heroine dealt with was all too familiar—the patient laid there, pitifully in a hospital, unable to recall their name or the identity of their loved ones. Or perhaps they were unable to recall events building up to their amnesia. Jay knew his name. He knew the important people in his life, and he told James that he could recall events leading up to his unfortunate situation, quite vividly.
Killing a bottle was something that was second nature to James. He could never forget how to do it, in exactly the same manner that a teenager could never forget how to masturbate. Certain motions were just part of certain people’s lives. Then, how Jay could forget to play football?
It was farcical, James thought. Probably his way of telling James that he had long tired of his presence, and it would be best if James left before he came good on his threat of contacting the authorities. Yet, he allowed James to stay a little longer so that James could see for himself the atrocity he felt he had displayed.
They went back outside and he tried to dribble the ball James had brought him. He looked as awkward as ever. He could not even run properly. James knew it could not be down to any physical injury or deformity, for he had seen the boy, briefly, without his gown on. He was as unscathed as ever with all parts of his body intact. If anything, he still looked very much in shape, sporting a physique most teenage boys his age would be proud of. So why was he lying? What were his ulterior motives?
An escape route in all likelihood. The burden of the game had surely caught up with him. James was not much of a football player, but even he looked like some sort of athlete next to Jay’s clumsy self. James threw the ball to him to volley and he barely connected. James asked him to shoot and hit the tree from not even two yards away, and he missed hopelessly. He was doing everything in his power to keep up the authentic look of being such a woeful player. Eventually, James grew tired of the shenanigans and ceased all ball activities. He sat beside Jay and asked him as patiently as he could: “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?” he barked back.
James knew not to put his hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to hide. Not from me, at least.”
“You think I want to hide? I had everything. Now look at me—I’m a bloody jellyfish!”
“The pressure you were put under was unfair. Pressure from the crowd to turn in magical performances all the time. To fulfil their desire to be entertained. And you’re just a kid. You’re just…”
“So, what if I was a kid? At least the crowd saw the real me. When the ball was at my feet, I didn’t seem like some foolish child to them. They saw me as someone who mattered.”
“Why did you need their approval?”
“I… I didn’t. I was just trying to gain the approval of one of them. But that doesn’t matter anymore.”
James nodded meekly.
“What was it about you two?”
“It’s always been that way I guess.”
4 April 2002 (11 years ago).
Comfort is not courage.
The sweltering heat aimed its relentless beams down on everyone as Jay went about his business. For a seven-year-old, he’d drawn up an abundance of attention, as he bore nothing but blue shorts, whilst kicking a football around, barefoot, on a rocky surface. What made his fooling around so significant and warranted a second, third or even fourth look was the fact that everyone in the crowd marvelled at how his control of the ball was so masterful for his age. He wasn’t kicking for plaudits though. He was kicking because the world only seemed in balance when he was with his ball.
His first real crowd had gathered to watch him. A mere taste of the future. As the aristocrats of Sandton strolled through the valley of indulgence that was Sandton Square, never had a topless boy seemed more out of place in his shoddy shorts. Then again, never had he been more in sync with his surroundings.
As water sprouted gracefully from the fountains in the middle of the Square, it felt like a fitting backdrop for a little artist, unleashing his talent into society. He continued to draw attention with his deft touches and with each second that coolly passed, both the ball and foot were inseparable. Almost. “Jayendra! Stop kicking that ball around! And put your shirt on. This isn’t the place or time. I can never take you anywhere!”
The small, slim man, dressed in a Carducci suit held a briefcase in one hand and a pile of documents in the other. He was the personification of a successful businessman. If you wanted someone to pose for a company ad, there would be fewer suitable candidates.
It was only Tuesday afternoon, yet hundreds were now packing into this part of Sandton. Fine dining, exclusive shopping, sidewalk cafés, it didn’t matter why they were here; all that mattered was that this was happening. What a time to be South African. A nation, which had long broken free from the immoral chains of Apartheid, was now a melting pot of raw potential and ambition.
Jay was too young to understand the sins of the past, but he was reminded of them, time and time again, as he grew up in the new nation. Under a decade ago, South Africa had also experienced the mother of all reputation enhancers—the Rugby World Cup. Having played the role of the host nation, the national rugby team, the Springboks, had gone on to win it in front of their adoring fans, and there seemed to be no limits to the third world country’s development.
Images of Nelson Mandela handing the trophy to captain Francois Pienaar had united a nation like never before. Whether you were Black, White, Indian, Coloured, Green, Indigo, or any other colour, the newly formed ‘Rainbow Nation’ promised everyone equal opportunity. Now, South Africa had the chance to go one better. They would be the first African country to host the greatest sporting event of them all—The Football World Cup. It had been announced last week and the nation universally rejoiced.
The man in his suit, Preega Chetty, had no time to think about such matters. He was an overly ambitious man who worked so hard, he often forgot what life was like outside the actual suit. He took exceptional care of his son, however. Jay was, after all, his only child.
Having been part of the struggle during Apartheid, Preega vowed that his son would never suffer the way he did and that he would go to the best schools and get the best possible education. At the dawn of this new period in South Africa, Preega knew it was time to rise above the rest; after people of colour had previously had their humanity violated. Preega had only been at Standard Bank as a consultant for a few years, but he was already making a difference.
Strutting through places like Sandton Square wasn’t just a chance for him to enjoy the success that he had worked so arduously for. It was also a chance to show the world that he wanted more and there was nothing he couldn’t achieve. What made his achievements even more remarkable was the fact that he’d left Durban to start a career in Johannesburg as early as he could. Durban was the South African home for Indians. The move was extremely risky. He had forfeited a comfortable life in Durban, but he always told Jay, time and time again—Comfort is not courage. He dared to take on the other world.
Preega was a widower. Jay’s mother had died when he could barely even walk, which is why his father sought out a fresh start. Jay never knew Durban much. He was Rosebank, through and through. Unfortunately, he was also an athlete through and through, something his beloved father had not planned for.
“You’re sweating like an animal! It doesn’t matter where we go now, either way, it’s takeaway again. There’s no way we’re going into one of these restaurants with you looking like some rug rat.”
With that, he s
natched the ball from his son’s hands and sported a glare that would have made Hitler cringe. Jay knew it would be best to follow him immediately.
“Hey, Mr Chetty!” Preega turned around from the Chinese restaurant counter, to see his college Johnny Seymour holding his blazer jacket in one hand, whilst drops of sweat trickled down his pink face.
“How’s this weather? Makes you wish you were in Eskimo land, hey?” He laughed loudly to himself as if he’d made the joke of the year. Preega gave him a brief smile.
“So, this is your kid hey? Looks like he’s gonna be some football player! He pulled quite a crowd outside there.”
“Yes, but I’m sure he’s going to be quite the academic when he grows up. His favourite toy is his abacus I got him last year.”
“No, it’s not dad! I love my ball, you know that!” Preega scowled again.
“But what do I always tell you, my boy?”
And like a programmed robot, Jay regurgitated: “Comfort is not courage.”
Johnny looked at both of them with a facial expression of utter bewilderment, a look the man sported more often than not. Jay’s father picked up the packets of food from the counter and nodded to Johnny as a means of biding his colleague farewell. Jay held onto the ball as if it was a bag of diamonds and grinned at Johnny. As they walked towards the car, Jay looked up to his father.
“Dad, if hard work is so important, and having fun is not, why do you get angry when I kick my ball? I’m just working hard at something I have fun at.”
Preega looked at him stoically. As he opened his mouth to talk, Jay awaited another scolding.
“Let’s get home quickly, I hate cold food.”
23 September 2013. 2:32 PM
Fathers teach sons many things, whether they mean to or not. James looked up at Jay. The boy bit his lower lip. He refused to let up in front of James. James promised himself there and then that he had to figure out the truth. He would not live out whatever was left of his paltry existence having this boy believe that he had ruined his life. Jay’s earliest memory of fighting for his beloved game stayed with James. Jay knew that he wanted nothing else from this life—just to be part of a world where his talent existed. So, why did he now hide his skill here, like a miserable outcast in the shadows?
“That’s just how things were between my old man and me,” Jay suddenly said, noticing James wandering off into a zone of his own.
“Was he really always that tough on you?”
“He knew no other way. It’s the way his dad treated him and it’s the way he expected me to be treated.”
“It doesn’t mean he didn’t love you.”
“Save me the soppiness. He would gladly have held back on that front. And you of all people don’t get to talk about him.”
The bitterness seeped through him again, always stronger just as James threatened to break down his guard. Jay rubbed his temples once more.
“He just couldn’t accept me. Worse than that, he couldn’t accept what I had to offer the world. I was putty, and he wanted to mould me into his ideal son—the version he wished he had. I thought he’d at least be grateful that I was good at something.”
“You weren’t good. You were the best.”
“Not to him.”
James didn’t hesitate this time. He moved forward and put his hand on Jay’s shoulder, recognising that it was a gesture which Preega would not have bestowed upon the boy. The unfamiliarity of the motion made Jay nervous again, but he did not pull away this time. He merely stiffened his shoulder.
“You don’t know how he truly felt,” James implored to him. “He was harsh because he wanted the best for you. It’s a vintage fatherly mindset.”
“Don’t defend him. You don’t know him.”
“Do you?”
His shoulder loosened.
“I know what you’re thinking, James. You’re thinking he killed my father. That’s what you truly believe.”
James did believe that. It had to be him.
“If you’re so sure, then get me proof and maybe I can forgive you. But more importantly, get me to him. You may or may not have taken my father, but he took something far more important from me.”
James swallowed as if there were a sizeable lump in his throat.
“Vinny De Silva is something else. You can’t face him alone. You’re just a…”
“Kid? Heard that before. You think that he’ll kill me, but I don’t care. Better to die like that, than live like this.”
“Don’t let revenge blind you. He did not take everything from you. He can never take the one thing that will always be yours.”
“Which is?”
“Your talent.”
James held out the football to him, once more.
“You never know when your inner artist may return,” he winked.
Jay tried to juggle the ball with his feet yet again and failed miserably. He picked it up and threw it aside. It was the most power he’d gotten the whole afternoon, with the ball travelling into his neighbour’s yard.
“I’m sorry,” Jay put up his hand, “I’ll get it back.”
He awkwardly pulled himself over the fence. James peered over and noticed a kennel on the other side from where Jay was. Jay strolled towards the ball crunching leaves in his path with his sneakers. Within seconds, an enraged Rottweiler charged out of the kennel and was hurtling towards him, its canines jutting out and poised to pierce. He threw the ball back over and turned to scurry back.
It was finally time to show off what an athlete he really was. He had more than enough of a head start to make it over in time. Yet, his run was so futile, mirroring that of a pensioner. He hobbled hopelessly towards the fence. The hound edged closer, within reach of mounting him. The tears in Jay’s eyes finally unleashed themselves. His body would not save him.
This was no act. Jay Chetty’s athletic abilities had evaporated. Either that or he was willing to have his face torn up by a Rottweiler just to prove a point. James ran to the hose-pipe in Jay’s yard and flicked his wrist as quickly as possible to free open the tap. He aimed it at the Rottweiler and the water fervently splashed against the charged-up canine. The dog squealed and lowered its shoulders in defeat as James helped Jay over the fence.
“Are you insane? That dog would have turned you into tuna.”
The tears continued to trickle down his warm face. He was breathing heavily. James held him close, hugged him even. He hugged back and howled:
“What’s happened to me? What’s happened to me?”
James helped him back into the house, and they both had a cup of tea to settle the nerves.
Jay, eventually, fell asleep. James sat quietly across the bed from him, wondering whether the superstar could even kick a ball in his dreams.
Chapter 4
23 September 2013. The army
They marched towards him as ants would—without wavering, without ill-discipline. They trooped along, knowing everything about the man in front of them. They knew him through whisperings. Through crafty voices. Through dark truths that had spread deep into the Johannesburg streets. This was the first glimpse that they would get of him as they spread across a white line on an unmaintained patch of grass. He bore Chinese tattoos on his forearms and his neck. He stared at them long and hard. They dared not to look back directly. He did not appreciate the sombre air, so he smiled. It was an ominous but crookedly captivating smile.
“Relax,” he said as he removed a pack of Rothmans Red cigarettes from his upper pocket. “Any of you smoke?”
The line remained as hushed as ever.
“This is a bad start for us,” he brought the pack of smokes closer to his eyes for inspection. “I’ve got a bunch of lying bastards standing in front of me. There are, what, 20 of you here? And you’re saying that none of you smoke? I’m not sure that I like liars. Or bastards as a matter of fact.”
Still, no one responded. They had not known what to expect of him. No one knew what to expect when Vinny De Silva
was around.
“I hate smoking. So, when I found this pack in one of your bags, I figured whoever it belonged to was a bastard. I didn’t know he was a liar as well.”
He tossed the pack to the ground, crunching it beneath his hobnailed boots. He looked at them with that crooked grin again.
“Who here watches TV?”
This time the response was staggering. Almost everyone put up a hand.
“You often see generals light up a cigar before addressing their army in those war movies, don’t you?”
They nodded obediently.
“Maybe, you could be my army?”
They nodded with a greater sense of urgency now, almost leaning forward into him. “I’m not like those generals though.”
He took out a Fizz Pop from the same upper pocket. His curly, greasy hair glistened in the sunlight along with his light brown skin. He unwrapped the lollypop and began to lick it nonchalantly.
“I prefer these to cigarettes,” he continued as he played with the lollypop in his mouth as though it were a toothbrush.
“I think you’ll learn to love me a whole lot better than those old fools you follow so blindly on the screen.”
He laughed to himself in a wheezy manner. He turned his back on them to retrieve something from a short, slightly obese man, who sported a receding hairline. The man looked pathetic next to Vinny’s far taller, leaner and more powerful frame. Vinny turned back to them. He was now holding an AK-47.
“I’m sure you’ve seen movies with these in it.”
He walked across the line, gazing into their eyes, searching for potential weaknesses. He needed assassins—those without soul or sentiment.
“Smoke if you must. But if you do not know how to use one of these by the time I’m done with you, then we will definitely not get along. And we don’t want that, do we?”
They shook their heads, without thinking about it.
