The sunlight wanes as the working day ends. City noises are amplified as vehicles jammed with people rush to get home. From our position in the building behind the clinic we can’t see what Rochester Rampele is up to inside. We rely on the periodic updates from the rest of the team. Where they are located is beyond my knowledge but their vantage points allow them to paint us a pretty picture.
“The doctor has left the building, over.”
“Last patients have exited through the front door, over.”
“Ramphele is cleaning the surgery now, over.”
We wait.
At five o’clock, long after the clinic has closed its doors for the day, our perpetrator finally leaves. He exits through the back door dressed in ordinary clothing that’ll help him blend into the crowds. A black, slogan T-shirt paired with plain jeans and white sneakers leaves Rochester indistinguishable from anyone else his age on the streets. The only tell is the Kaizer Chiefs baseball cap he wears pulled low over his forehead. Though, I doubt his choice in clothing has anything to do with paranoia, one can never be certain if a perp suspects a tail.
When Rochester retrieves the cooler box behind the dumpster Detective Mosepi orders a couple of undercover cops to follow him. The rest are to stay well behind but within radio distance of the undercover officers.
I toss my cell phone and Kindle into my purse, pull my hair into a tight ponytail, and follow Detective Mosepi out. After spending the day in the shithole apartment it’s almost refreshing to see the disgusting hallway outside the door.
“He’s going to meet his buyer tonight.” Detective Mosepi says when we reach the staircase down the hallway. “As soon as the exchange is made, we move in. Two birds, one stone, all that.”
“Do you know where he meets his buyers?”
“Yes.”
It’s all he’s willing to give me and I don’t press for more.
Once outside the complex we walk at a brisk pace to where he’d parked his unmarked car. Hidden behind the mosque that shares the same parking lot, the black BMW sits by its lonesome self.
Detective Mosepi is winded when we finally strap into the seats.
“You should quit smoking,” I say as the engine purrs to life. “You’re killing yourself.”
He shoots me a sharp look, grunts, and reverses into the street.
I study the city I both love and loathe through the tinted window.
Classical architecture with long, sometimes dark yet fascinating histories, stand alongside modern glass and steel skyscrapers sparkling brilliantly in the sun. Trees line the thoroughfares beside the slender metal streetlights. Bronze statues, their significance lost to time, stare out at the ever-changing city from their patches of lawn. The homeless will move to Church Square, where the statue of President Paul Kruger watches over their weary, frail forms. Ironic, considering the new government sees the statue as an icon of Apartheid, yet the homeless are drawn to this spot for solace. Then comes the older part of the city where centuries-old churches compete with pop-up ministries for souls.
It’s a sad sight, but not sadder than the out-of-place primary school situated in the busiest (and possibly the most dangerous) part of town.
Eendracht Maakt Macht. The slogan of Eendracht Primary is etched into a faded sign at their front gate. Like the rest of the city, this school has a rich history forgotten by most unless you were enrolled there. It’s not the biggest school in Pretoria CBD, but it’s old enough to make it a historical landmark of sorts. Back in the day, Eendracht Primary schooled almost all the children in the city, and some from well beyond the city’s borders. Children from varied backgrounds, ethnicities, and religions were all treated equally.
I should know; I spent a chunk of my childhood behind that metal gate.
No more than a block away stands the eyesores of Pretoria—the Schubart Park and Kruger Park flats. Once upon a time these buildings were state-of-the-art apartment complexes, housing thousands of families. Unfortunately, these buildings, and most of the families who lived there, weren’t granted a happily ever after. Stripped to the bone, the remnants of these apartment buildings look like the renditions of post-apocalyptic movie sets. Skeletal structures fenced off and manned by armed guards show the true horrors poverty has to offer.
It’s here, near the entrance to Schubart Park itself that Detective Mosepi parks his vehicle.
“Stay in the car,” he says, opening his door.
“You don’t have to tell me twice.” I gaze at the derelict towers that look like they might fall down at any time. To think, twenty years ago people were jumping to their deaths from these buildings, and now the buildings themselves look suicidal. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious to wander around the place a bit, to see how it looks like now, but I keep it to myself.
Detective Mosepi gives me a dubious look before climbing out and closing the door behind him. He makes his way up the few stairs to where a guard patrols the entrance. They have a quick, quiet conversation before the detective is granted access to the grounds.
“Of course,” I say to myself, “maybe I would have listened if you had told me twice.” I release my safety belt and open the door.
I wouldn’t waste an opportunity to see what had become of a place so many childhood friends called home.
I’m not the most inconspicuous person in the world. I’m relatively tall at 1.77 meters and my fiery red locks are a beacon to anyone with eyesight. These elements make it difficult for me to hide in general. Therefore, I didn’t hold much hope of entering the fenced-off, condemned building, where armed guards patrol the perimeter. I was, however, prepared to bribe the guard out front to grant me entry. Imagine my surprise when I pass through without a hitch. The guy didn’t so much as spare me a second glance when I waltzed up the steps and smiled my most brilliant smile for him.
Schubart Park consists of several towers linked together by a relatively big courtyard. I remember this from the one time I had been in the complex, against my father and grandfather’s wishes. Back then, the pond—a water feature lacking imagination—sparkled. Older people would spend their days seated on the concrete benches surrounding it to feed birds or watch the world pass them by. I don’t recall there ever being grass, though. My memory isn’t quite that good.
I pass through the foyer of the desolate apartment complex, a box-like tunnel, once housing hundreds upon hundreds of post boxes and enter the courtyard. The towers loom over me blocking out the last rays of sunlight, their foreboding abandon more apparent than from outside. They’re skeletons—flesh and muscle picked away by the harsh African elements. The water feature somehow survived time, but algae and some unidentifiable sludge is all that remains in the pool. The benches lie in piles of rubble, broken down to the foundation. Weeds push through the cracks in the pavement, threatening to take back the land.
“I told you to stay in the car.” Detective Mosepi’s voice is indifferent
“When I was in grade one, one of my friends lived here. I think her name was Marie Fisher,” I say. “I remember it was a cold winter’s day when I arrived home, inconsolable and wearing only my school dress. My dad, expecting the worst, asked me what was wrong, but it took so long for me to stop crying. He asked me where my jersey and jacket were. What I’d done with my shoes and socks.”
I shiver from the memory and wrap my arms around myself. I can still remember how the wind had cut through my thin school dress and chilled my bones. I recall how Dad’s face had twisted with pure dread when he saw me. The Devil must have whispered horrendous scenarios into his ear… I have never seen him so scared before or after that day.
“I couldn’t tell him,” I continue. “I was crying so hard. Finally, after I’m sure he was at his wits end, I told him: “Daddy, there are children who come to school without shoes or jerseys. Their lips are blue from the cold, their stomachs grumble from hunger.” I couldn’t understand why the world was so cruel. Why did I have so much when they had nothing?” I rub my ha
nds over my arms. “Dad, ever the problem solver, got my grandfather to pitch in for a charity drive. Along with a few guys from the station—you included, Detective—filled up a trailer with food and clothes and blankets and toys. Then you came to school during a lunch hour and we distributed the goods to the children who needed it the most.”
Detective Mosepi shows no sign of recollection or sympathy.
“It was my first lesson in humility,” I admit. “From that day onwards I never threw a tantrum when my Dad or Grandpa said I couldn’t have something. I always ate my vegetables. I thanked God for what I had every night, and never, not once, did I curse Him for my mother’s absence again.” I turn around to face Detective Mosepi, the memory stirring another bout of gratefulness. “You have no idea how happy those kids were to not feel forgotten.”
“You should have stayed in the car,” he says.
I shrug. “Thought I’d look around and reminisce about the world. I’ll stay well out of the way, don’t worry.”
Detective Mosepi hands me a flashlight and points toward a stairwell, as barren as the rest of its surroundings. “It’s stable, but don’t go falling into an elevator shaft. You have thirty minutes and then I want you back in the car.”
I nod and saunter towards the staircase, excited and anxious to explore the remnants of recent history. After a day of inactivity, I have too much energy to burn. I’m bursting with a desire for movement, for bubbling conversations and interesting sights.
“Oro, plata, mata,” I whisper to myself, counting each step as I climb the stairs. “Gold, silver, death.” I ascend the next three steps. Grandpa taught me the Philippine rhyme as an alternative to my annoying childhood obsession with eeny-meeny-miny-moe. He told me the rhyme was derived from an old Philippine superstition, where people believed a staircase ending on mata was a bad omen. I adopted the superstition for shits and giggles. “Oro, plata, mata. Gold, silver, death.” The beam of the flashlight waves across piles of trash and debris in the corners of the landings. In places, pieces of the metal bannisters are missing, but the integrity of the stairs hasn’t been compromised. I am relatively safe as long as I don’t venture too far to the edge or rely on the bannisters. “Oro, plata, mata. Gold, silver, death.” I turn the landing and head up another flight.
I’m not even halfway up the tower when my mantra’s been repeated at least five dozen times, ending on silver. I decide then not to go any higher than the eleventh floor. Instead, I walk into one of the long, narrow hallway stretching to either side. Some apartments’ front doors hang at awkward angles, providing a glimpse into hollow interiors stripped bare of plumbing pipes, electrical wires, metal window frames, and anything else salvageable for illegal sales. Other apartments don’t even have their doors anymore.
If the world ended tomorrow this would be humanity’s legacy.
I step around a discarded shopping trolley lying in the middle of the hallway and head for the furthest room on the floor.
Down the hallway, the last door on the left, I step through a sloping threshold and into what used to be a narrow corridor. This leads past a tiny kitchen and into a living room where the only remnant of human occupation is a scorched plastic baby-doll. I push forward into another narrow corridor heading past a stripped bathroom and two small bedrooms. At the furthest side, overlooking the city, sits the main bedroom. It’s exposed to the elements. There is no wall or window acting as a barrier and falling over the edge is a reality I’m not fond of living through.
The dying sun throws a deep orange, almost pink, blanket across the jagged horizon. City lights sparkle like gemstones before the world plunges into darkness. The rhythms and beats of Pretoria ebb away, until silence reigns.
Behind me a mural of a black-and-white Jesus Christ looks out on the world.
It’s beautifully tragic.
Using my cell phone, I take pictures of the sunset, framed by the broken walls, floor and ceiling. I take pictures of the mural too and post them on Facebook under the photo album heading: PRETORIA—BEAUTIFUL AND FORGOTTEN PLACES.
My phone buzzes in my hand, ruining the moment.
“Hello.” My voice rebounds from the surrounding walls and disappears into the dusk.
“Wherever you are,” Detective Mosepi hisses over the line, “stay put and keep quiet. Rochester and his guy slipped into the building you’re in.”
I fumble with the flashlight and switch it off.
“My guys are getting into position, but if anything happens, scream as loud as you can—”
“I’m on the eleventh floor,” I cut him off. “I’m too high for anyone to come rescue me if something happens.”
He grumbles under his breath in isiZulu. “Stay where you are until I call you again. Please.”
“I’m sitting down right now,” I say, looking around for a place to sit. The floor is dusty and uneven and I’ll probably need a tetanus shot before the night is over, but I take a seat and look out on the City of Pretoria. “And I’m ruining my outfit in the process. Are you happy, Detective?”
Detective Mosepi ends the call.
“You’re welcome.” I mutter to the cell phone, already scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed again. Several “likes” have blinked in my notification box thanks to the photographs I posted. One of the thumbs up belongs to Howlen. “Oh, so you do use Facebook?” I whisper. “Good to know.”
My phone buzzes again; another notification, this time from a delivered SMS.
>Howlen: Where are you?
>Esmé: Shubart Park.
>Howlen: o_O I won’t presume to know where that is. Are you safe?
>Esmé: Relatively. Why? Want to come hold my hand? :-P
>Howlen: Can’t. I’m going out on a date.
>Esmé: Did Grandpa drag you to dinner again? LOL!
>Howlen: No. I’m going out with a pathologist I met at the lab.
I stare at the last message for longer than necessary, eyebrow raised, lips pursed, blood curdling. Instead of saying something I would later regret, especially seeing as Howlen and I never discussed the aspects of our so-called relationship, I weigh my words carefully.
>Esmé: Sounds like fun. Enjoy your evening.
>Howlen: Thank you. Enjoy yours as well.
>Esmé: I plan on it. Cheers.
“Asshole,” I hiss.
I ignore his texted response and push the piece of plastic tech into my pocket. Out of sight but far from being out of mind, I lean back against the wall and grind my teeth. We’ve never broached the subject of whether we were seeing one another exclusively or not. Still, I thought it was bloody obvious.
Well… okay, I don’t think it would have worked out between us anyway, but screwing around is just rude.
Eskom—South Africa’s leading electricity provider’s load-shedding schedule kicks into gear as the sun sinks behind the horizon, dousing the twinkling lights as the power grid is turned off. Utter blackness surrounds me. I resist the urge to put on the flashlight and pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my hands around my legs.
Tonight has become incredibly depressing.
With only the moon as a light source, I discern individual rocks and bricks and other large pieces of debris surrounding me.
Shouts echo from somewhere in the building. A gunshot fires. More shouts. Then, silence. I jump up, fumble for the flashlight, and wait for something more to happen. Footsteps drag across concrete, loud and fast, and close. Shouted demands. Several more shots reverberate through the hollow building.
My heart pumps adrenaline. Paranoia makes me consider my chances of survival. There are no hiding places available if someone runs to this apartment. I’ll get shot, be held hostage, or killed. I’m not entirely helpless, I can protect myself, but there’s only so much I can physically do against a gun.
“Fuck,” I whisper. I sit down and try to make myself small. The noise continues, closing in on my location. I shut my eyes, pray that this takedown is quickly resolved and hope Howlen has a terrible
time on his date.
My phone buzzes in my pocket again. I find it with trembling hands and check my messages.
>Howlen: Are you angry with me?
>Howlen: You were at a bloody swinger’s party last night!
>Howlen: May?
>Esmé: I’m stuck in the middle of a shootout! Shut up already, I’m hiding!
Footsteps make me hold my breath. I hide the cell phone’s screen against my chest, hoping the light is muted enough not to alert whoever’s stumbling around in the dark. My palms sweat, my mind races, every single one of my regrets surfaces.
Please don’t come in here, I pray, squeezing my eyes shut and tightening my grip on my phone. Please, please, please.
My phone vibrates.
The footsteps halt. I hear debris crush, crack, and grind under feet. Laboured breathing comes to an abrupt stop somewhere inside the apartment. A distinct click as a bullet slides into the chamber of a gun.
My lungs burn from inactivity, but I daren’t make a sound.
Footsteps close in on me, slowly.
I stand up from the floor, even slower. I can’t save myself if I’m sitting, and I won’t go out without a fight.
A figure appears in the doorway, tall and familiar—I’ve been studying it the whole day. Rochester’s gaze is glued on the city beyond, not on me hiding a hairsbreadth away.
Maybe he won’t see me? Maybe he’ll walk away?
Luck is not on my side.
Something must have given my presence away, because Rochester suddenly whirls around and pulls the trigger.
The shot is deafening from its close proximity. It rebounds from three barely-standing walls before disappearing into the night. The white light from the barrel sears my sparce surroundings into my retinas, effectively blinding me for a moment. My vocal cords release a sound that’s something between a war cry and a scream for help.
Muti Nation Page 9
