Refuge

by Andrew Brown

  Outside, the gunfire had continued. Some shots were fired in rapid succession into the sky; others were more considered, single cracks that made the sides of the container sing. One bullet struck the door, leaving a dent but failing to puncture the metal, and no light penetrated. Ifasen and Abayomi huddled in the corner, covered in burlaps and heavy tarpaulins. Abayomi shook with fear, clutching at Ifasen’s arm, tighter and tighter. Small sobs escaped in spurts from her mouth and she pushed her face into the crook of his neck. The custard apple was smeared across her dress. As the container heated up in the sun, the sickly smell of the fruit started to make Ifasen feel ill. Outside the shouts continued. The sound of a jeep pulling up close by, people moaning, protesting. The crack of a whip or baton on someone’s back. Their sweat had run freely, covering them in a slick, dirty film. The heat in the container became unbearable. With nothing to drink, they could feel their bodies depleting and their throats tensing for relief. Abayomi’s sobbing slowed and stopped, until she lay in a sopping daze, not knowing if her eyes were open or closed.

  They hid in the container for many hours, until all sound had ceased and the last jeep accelerated away. The sun had already started to set when Ifasen crawled on his hands and knees to the door. Even the lowered light of dusk was blinding. He felt Abayomi crawl up next to him and together they peered out through the opening. There was no one about. Some of the stalls had collapsed, their palm-frond roofs dangling on strings, and many of the hessian bags of food were missing.

  Ifasen smelt the blood before he saw it, salty and ferrous. Just next to the door, a viscous pool had collected up against the side of the container. The edges were already drying, dark and solid-looking, but the centre was still bright red. He stood up and pushed the door open. Other darkened patches were spotted across the marketplace. They left, clinging to each other. They had never spoken of that day again. There were other days like it and they did not speak of these either. But in the darkness of the police cell, the nightmares emerged unbidden.

  Ifasen was thankful when another person was admitted to the cell later that evening. The door crashed open and a protesting young man was thrown in. He smelt of alcohol, but was talkative and distracted Ifasen from his thoughts. After a while Ifasen lay down in the corner furthest from the open toilet. He wrapped himself in the blanket. It was scratchy and smelt of stagnant river water and mould. He tried not to think of the lice swarming over his body and closed his eyes to sleep. But throughout the course of the Friday night, he was awoken by the scraping noise of the keys as the small cell started to fill up. Belligerent drunks and petty thieves stumbled into the gloom, clutching their few possessions. The newcomers would tread on others, falling about until they found an empty patch of concrete to lie down on. Some would shout and argue and a fight would break out, with kicking feet and swearing. Someone had fallen on Ifasen, his elbow jarring against his half-open mouth and bruising his top lip. There was no mirror or light to inspect the damage, but Ifasen could feel that it was swollen and his tongue kept running over the crease of a split on the inside of his mouth. He lay on his back, pushing his eyelids shut and trying to block out the noises around him.

  On the Saturday, in the first dim light of the morning, he counted eleven inmates. The thick panes of glass, positioned high above them, were smeared and crusted, making the light itself seem grubby. A young constable arrived with a loaf of bread and a small tin of jam piled onto an enamel plate. Ifasen reached the locked gate just before the policeman closed the door.

  ‘Please,’ he said, putting his hand through the bars to stop the door from closing. The constable looked irritated but kept the door slightly open. His blond hair was spiky and stuck out from beneath his cap messily. ‘I need to speak to Inspector Jeneker. Please call him for me.’

  The policeman shook his head. ‘The inspector is off this weekend. He is only back on duty on Monday.’ He tried to close the door but Ifasen kept his hand pushing against it.

  ‘Please. What must I do then?’

  ‘Monday you go to court,’ the young man answered, forcing the door closed. Ifasen heard the double lock turn over and the man’s retreating footfall. When he turned back to the cell, the bread had been finished.

  Abayomi had listened to Ifasen’s message in the early hours of Friday evening. The moment she heard his voice, speaking Igbo, she knew that there was trouble. She listened to his words twice more, trying to extract everything from his stilted tone. She collected some of his clothes in a plastic bag but could not leave Khalifah alone, and Sunday was nowhere to be seen. Eventually, on the Saturday morning, she organised for her son to go to her neighbour, a young mother with a child of her own. When she dropped Khalifah off, the young woman’s own baby was crying, yellow mucus running from his nose. Abayomi hesitated at the door, seeing Khalifah’s darting eyes. She had no choice and departed, stopping at the Spar to buy some food for her husband.

  As she pushed open the glass door to the charge office, the constable behind the counter smiled at her. He looked like a teenager with his unbrushed hair and pretty face. The office was unnaturally bright and airy, filled with posters and files covered in Christmas wrapping paper. It seemed more like the reception for a clinic or a crèche. She smiled back briefly at the young policeman and asked to see her husband. Ifasen’s name sounded strained on her lips.

  The constable nodded courteously, his eyes drifting down her neck towards her chest. Abayomi dragged her loose top closed. The policeman mumbled something and pulled out a large register from beneath the counter. The pages smelt musty and were filled with scrawled black writing. He ran his finger up the column of handwritten names, starting at the bottom of the page. Even as he searched the long list, Abayomi could see Ifasen’s name printed near the top. She waited patiently.

  ‘Yes, here we are. Eefaseen Obeji.’ He pronounced the name slowly, as if it were the name of an exotic meal on a foreign menu. He looked up at her, pleased with himself. Again his eyes started to drift downwards.

  An adjoining door leading into the charge office opened and a plain-clothes detective sloped in. His firearm was wedged into his belt, and the fat of his waist pushed out around the butt of the gun. He clutched a messy takeaway hamburger and there was a smear of sauce on his chin. When he saw Abayomi standing on the other side of the counter, he stopped and whistled unashamedly.

  ‘Mense, dis nou iets om aan te vat.’ He shook his head. ‘Know what I mean, hey Miller?’

  Abayomi did not understand the words but took in the gist well enough. The detective whistled again, slowly drawing in the air through his stained teeth. The young constable seemed uncomfortable, flipping the pages of the register open and closed as if still looking for something. The detective took a massive bite from his hamburger, still eyeing Abayomi. As he chewed, a stray piece of lettuce protruded between his lips. He seemed to be thinking of something else to say. The constable started talking to Abayomi, as if to drown out any further comment, although she was not listening. She stared at a point on the floor just to the side of the overweight detective. He lost interest and swaggered off, his fingers at his mouth.

  ‘Sorry,’ the young constable mumbled, looking up from the register.

  ‘That’s okay, Constable Miller,’ Abayomi replied, addressing him directly. He blushed slightly at her grasp of his name. ‘I would just like to see my husband, please. And tell me what I have to do or what I must pay to have him released.’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ he replied, looking genuinely forlorn, ‘but I can’t help you on either one of those. You won’t be able to see him until he’s taken to court on Monday. And, well, only the court can release him. The charge is drugs, you see?’ The policeman squirmed under her steady gaze.

  ‘Drugs? Drugs?’ she said. ‘I don’t think you understand, Constable. Ifasen has nothing to do with drugs. Chei! If you knew where he came from, who he was …’ She stopped, realising the futility of her words.

  ‘I’m sorry. I understand what y
ou’re telling me. But it’s a serious charge.’ The man pointed to another column in the register. The same handwriting had neatly printed some words and a series of numbers. ‘So we can’t just release him. You see?’ The tone of his voice was beseeching.

  Abayomi sighed, inflating her chest and letting the air out in a rush. The words and numbers meant nothing to her, but she could see that the constable was not going to help her. She and Ifasen had faced similar obstacles escaping Nigeria. At the Zambian border they had been refused entry and the aggressive official had thrown their papers back at them. But all the while he had stared at Abayomi shamelessly. Without talking to Ifasen, she had followed the official into a tiny storeroom that smelt of paint and detergent. There she had let him put his hand under her dress. She had taken him out of his trousers, swollen, and quickly rubbed him to a climax. When it was over, he had tried to kiss her. She had pushed him away. But he had still stamped their papers and let them pass through the border post.

  Abayomi watched the constable’s awkward gestures. He was enraptured by her, but clearly did not have the authority to give her what she wanted.

  ‘What will happen then?’ Her expression was cold now. ‘On Monday?’

  ‘His case will be called at Cape Town Magistrate’s Court, in courtroom number 15. Then he’ll be given bail.’ The constable seemed to cheer up at the prospect. ‘So you just need to bring cash to the court to pay the bail. And then he will be released. And he’ll just have to go back on the date they tell him. Okay?’

  She ran her hand over her face. Grains of wind-blown sand rubbed beneath her palm. ‘I understand. Could you then please give him these clothes and food?’ She placed two plastic packets on the counter.

  ‘Sorry,’ the constable replied, crestfallen. ‘I can’t do that either … well, I can’t give him the clothes. I can take the food to him, but … you know he’s not on his own in the cell, and there will be a fight over the food. It happens every time …’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Thank you for your help, Constable Miller.’ Abayomi picked up the two bags and turned her back on him. She dropped the packet of food into the lap of an old man lying next to his crutches outside the police station and then strode away, the bundle of Ifasen’s clothes banging against her thigh.

  Abayomi waited from early on Monday morning, sitting on a hard bench at the back of an imposing courtroom. A coat of arms and a limp flag filled the space behind the empty magistrate’s chair. It seemed a long way away from where she sat. She tried to ask the prosecutor what was happening with her husband’s case, but the woman waved her hand, dismissing Abayomi as she bustled past.

  ‘I can’t talk to you now.’ The woman’s voice was shrill and grating on the ears. She dumped a pile of tattered dockets on her desk and rushed off again.

  Abayomi gave up after a while and went to sit down, waiting for proceedings to begin. Eventually, the court sergeant stood up, dropping a chocolate wrapper onto the floor. He was like a man waking from a long sleep, stretching and yawning. When he announced the arrival of the magistrate, the court attendants all stood up briefly. Having done his job for the day, the sergeant slouched back into his chair and started to pick at his nails. A hum of drudgery soon settled like flecks of soot on the proceedings.

  The magistrate was an imposing man. He seemed as impatient with the prosecutor as he was with the slow procession of accused persons who traipsed through the dock. A series of men shuffled into the dock, one after the other, their shoulders drooped and their faces downcast. Each time the prosecutor squeaked and the magistrate boomed. Abayomi could not follow the Afrikaans, but she could read the defeated look in the men’s eyes as they turned away to descend the steps back to the cells.

  At tea time the court adjourned suddenly, as if in an emergency. The magistrate rushed out as though on an important errand. Everyone stood up and stretched, turning their cellphones on and straightening their crumpled trousers. The courtroom filled with the beeping of phone messages. The prosecutor still refused to speak to her, muttering something indiscernible as she fled. Abayomi followed her into the corridor outside, but the small woman vanished into the crowd.

  ‘Hey, babi,’ a familiar voice called to Abayomi. ‘How’s things mai sista?’ Sunday was seated with his legs sticking out into the thoroughfare, a cheap MP3 player in his lap and his hat pulled rakishly low. He pushed it back and grinned up at her.

  ‘Haba! As you see them, Sunday.’ Abayomi said, smiling for the first time that day. ‘Thank you for coming. He still hasn’t come up from the cells. They won’t tell me anything. I feel like screaming at them because they just don’t want to listen to me.’

  ‘The goat that cries the most is the one that will go hungry.’ Sunday nodded his head sagely and then broke into a wide-toothed grin. ‘Tory don wowo, true to God.’

  ‘You and your stupid sayings, Sunday,’ Abayomi answered, but her tone was gentle. She sat down beside him.

  Sunday shoved his hand into his denim pocket and pulled out a crushed tube of peppermints. He dug his thumb into the sweet paper to force out a mint for Abayomi. But as he was about to offer it to her, his eyes widened and he jumped up from the bench, sending the white mint bouncing like a marble across the dirty floor.

  ‘Voertsek, Sunday!’ A shout came from the passageway. Abayomi did not need to look up to identify the speaker. Sunday scampered down the corridor as if wounded and disappeared around the corner. The bench shifted as Jeneker sat down next to Abayomi. She was aware of his smell, the menacing warmth of his body very close to hers.

  ‘Hello, my dear.’ Jeneker’s hand brushed against Abayomi’s braids, close to her cheek. She shuddered and he let out a cold laugh. ‘Not happy to see me? Well, you must think about that. Given where your husband is and all.’

  Abayomi looked up to find him staring back at her, a little smirk pulling the corner of his mouth upwards, crinkling his thin moustache. His leather jacket smelt of smoke and something putrid, as if it were rotting.

  ‘Leave us alone, Jeneker,’ Abayomi managed to say. ‘You are nothing but your boss’s monkey,’ she muttered to herself in Igbo as she looked away.

  Jeneker’s hand shot out like a viper, snapping around her wrist and gripping her in a painful lock. He pushed his face up to hers, his mouth quivering. ‘Don’t you ever speak to me in that fucked-up language of yours. Never ever. Do you fucking understand?’ She felt a spray of spittle on her cheek and tried to turn away, flinching. He yanked her wrist hard until she was forced to turn back to him. ‘Don’t ever think that you are better than me. You are the shit that sticks on the bottom of my boot. You are the crap from the streets that I wipe off my shoes before I go into my house. Don’t ever, ever fucking forget that.’

  The words hissed out at her, whistling and sliding around her ears. She felt little sobs rising in her throat. She tried to swallow, to hold them down, but her body started to shake, first her hands, then her legs. Her chest heaved. His proximity to her was claustrophobic, his strong grip on her arm holding her prisoner.

  ‘Please …’ The word was released from her lips like steam escaping under pressure.

  ‘Please? Fuck you! Please what? Please let my drug-dealer husband back onto the street? Please what? You’re a whore, for God’s sake!’

  The elderly woman sitting across the way made a tutting sound and shifted away. Abayomi started to cry openly. A big teardrop formed on the edge of her chin and dropped, landing on Jeneker’s fist. He pulled away as if stung, then cleared his throat, regaining his composure: ‘Your husband is going to stay inside prison. Until I want him out. Nothing you do is going to change that, okay? So don’t try the crying act with me.’

  Abayomi closed her eyes and bent over, her face sunk in her hands. She waited like that for a long time, until her breaths were slow and regular again. When she opened her eyes again, Jeneker was gone.

  It took another hour in court before Ifasen’s name was called, horribly mispronounced by the diminutive prosecu
tor. Abayomi gasped when she saw her husband, disorientated and unkempt as he came up the concrete steps. He squinted in the bright light and looked around the courtroom in confusion. He did not seem to see Abayomi and stared wildly around him.

  ‘Face the front,’ the court orderly shouted at him. ‘Voorentoe.’ The magistrate glowered at him and said something that Abayomi couldn’t hear. Ifasen did not answer. The prosecutor scurried forward and handed up some paperwork. The magistrate read the documents slowly, without looking at Ifasen. Abayomi shuffled, half-crouching, to get closer to the front. The court orderly stiffened, taking a step towards her, and the magistrate looked up, examining her with disdain for a moment before returning to his reading.

  ‘Yes, I see,’ the magistrate finally said, still holding the papers between his thick fingers. He shuffled them as he spoke, muffling the sound of his verdict. The words ‘next Monday’, ‘further investigations’ and ‘remanded in custody’ drifted down from his elevated seat, although he seemed to be speaking to himself. The prosecutor nodded and took the file back.

  Ifasen did not move, staring blankly at the magistrate. The orderly approached him in the dock. Ifasen was still gazing at the magistrate when the man took him by the arm. Ifasen swirled his arm around, breaking the orderly’s hold. The man grunted and grabbed the same arm with both his hands. Ifasen still refused to face him and scowled as he felt the grip. Then Ifasen lifted his arm up, his fist clenched, and struck downwards. There was a cracking sound as the orderly’s right arm struck the wooden edge of the dock. The man shouted out in pain, releasing Ifasen and clutching his wounded arm.