Some may think that this is a sure sign that I am, in fact, lying. I once read that in war interrogations, the telltale sign of a liar is that their story never changes. No matter how much they are tortured, they stick to the same lie, step by step, detail after detail. Could I have put one story in my mind and refused to allow the natural workings of memory over time to interfere? Of course I’ve asked myself this. Of course I have! This is my brother’s life; it was my family whose livelihood was to completely disintegrate if I said anything. So yes, of course I’ve asked myself if maybe I was getting something mixed up. Even more importantly, I’ve had moments of wondering if maybe, just maybe, there is a possibility that I misunderstood. Although I must admit that these moments have been few and far apart. I’m ashamed to admit this fact: that I give my brother the benefit of the doubt very rarely on this one. But then . . . well, shame is a constant companion, isn’t it? A ball of steel chained to my ankle.
***
The party for Aus’ Nono had gone remarkably well. Mama had forbidden us to go, but Papa had insisted that it was “just a party,” and that, really, it would be rude not to be there.
“It’s for Kgosi,” he had told her after taking his last spoonful of ice cream one evening. “It’s not for Nono. It’s for her son. Basi is like his brother. If he doesn’t go, this will be very sad.”
So Mama had relented, and we had gone.
My first impression of Aus’ Nono was how frail she looked. I had remembered her being a solid woman with round hips and large hands that she was always waving in the air as she talked. At that party she looked tired, thin, and was mostly quiet while the singing and the drinking and the eating went on around her. I didn’t go over to greet her because she was surrounded by her friends, people my mother’s age, and it would be rude to go and sit among adults. Mainly I kept my distance, sitting under a tree in Kgosi’s backyard while Basi and Kgosi ran the show, giving people drinks and making sure everyone had enough to eat.
I remember getting a very good sense of how close Basi was to Kgosi’s mother. I mean, when we were younger and living ko motseng I knew that Kgosi’s mother really loved my brother. She had treated him like a second son. Sometimes when she came home from work after getting paid she would give Basi and Kgosi little presents, like a spinning top or a ball. Mama had never liked it, although she did the same for Kgosi then, possibly not wanting to be outdone. Ole, who had often observed this, called it “the battle of who loves their son more.”
Now it appeared that in spite of the prison bars Aus’ Nono and Basi’s bond had stayed strong. I understood why Basi had gone with Kgosi for visits, why he was so gutted by her experience.
At the party, he kept walking over to where she was sitting and handing her plates of food. He ran back and forth making sure she had a glass of water or ginger beer. At one time I saw her take his hand between both of hers and pat him lightly, then cup his chin, the two of them laughing together. From a distance—if you didn’t know anything—you would have thought she was his mother.
I was with Ole, who was sitting with her legs apart drinking Coke from the bottle, bobbing her head to the music and watching Moipone’s every move.
“When did you become good friends?” I asked her.
She only gave a noncommittal shrug.
“So,” she said, shifting her weight and adjusting her hat unnecessarily, “I still haven’t seen the dress.”
“Come and see it later,” I said, perking up and getting animated with my description of the dress. Ole, I knew, had no interest in the dress. She was feigning interest in me and my excitement about the dance, while occasionally darting her eyes towards whatever corner Moipone was occupying.
Basi unhooked his arm from around Moipone’s neck so he could go and sing along with Kgosi, and Ole’s face brightened. She leaned forward as if about to stand, then steadied herself and pretended she was only stretching.
Basi and Kgosi—along with a few of their friends, beer bottles and cups in their hands—stood up to dance and sing along to Arthur’s “Kaffir”: Don’t call me a Kaffir . . . Hei Baas . . .
Ole sat back in her chair then and watched with her legs stretched out. Staring but pretending not to from under the brim of her hat, she started biting her nails when Basi went back to where Moipone was sitting, linking his fingers with hers and pulling her to stand up.
“Isn’t it funny how these guys act like they relate to some American ghetto reality?”
I shrugged and forced a smile. I had seen Ole’s eyes do this, this look of resentment when someone had rubbed her up the wrong way. I had also seen that look directed at Basi and Kgosi. The two of them were some sort of thorn at her side.
When M’Du started howling “Siya Jola,” Basi and Moipone moved together to the centre of the dance circle. Five Bop danced his way out to make room for them. Ole put her elbows on her knees and clapped her hands, bobbing her head to the music with her eyes closed, refusing to see Basi and Moipone dancing in the middle of the circle, his hands on her hips. Basi had eyes for no one else.
I stood up and went to join in the dancing.
“Ayeye, Bafana!” I heard Fezile, one of Basi and Kgosi’s old Kasi friends say. “Di a bowa!”
That prompted some laughter, and I could see how perfect it seemed to everyone, including me. The boys were all as infatuated with Moipone as Basi was. I mean, really, just her calm eyes took your breath away. Later, when Ole went on about “the idea of her,” I never protested because that was one part of it that I understood.
***
I thought we would be there all afternoon, but soon after Basi came over and told me that it was time to go. I was surprised because it was early, especially considering that Basi was one of the hosts. He and Kgosi had driven food and drinks from the shop with Papa’s approval. They had organized this together—probably for longer than any of us realized.
Ole stood up and shook Basi’s hand with a smile—I think because she thought we were leaving and Moipone wasn’t. But we soon saw that Basi had other plans. Ole walked us to the car, and before I could climb in Basi said, “Can you sit in the back?” in English and in a whisper.
Ole looked behind us and frowned. Out came Moipone in her short denim skirt, black clogs, and a flowy white top with thin straps. She had tied her hair back so that you got the full effect of her perfectly made-up face and no one—I mean no one—could help but stare at her flawless skin, her full lips and her big, round eyes.
She smiled at me without showing her teeth and climbed in the front seat of the car. Then she quickly stepped out and gave Ole a hug before going back in. I didn’t look at Ole. I willed myself to look away. The innocence of Moipone’s hug had cut through me and I knew without seeing her face that it wasn’t what was supposed to happen. Even I felt the sting when my brother cheerfully said, “Sharp, Ole!” then stopped and asked politely, “Do you want to come with us? You could sit in the back with Nedi?”
Ole stepped back and folded her arms across her chest. Her hat covered her eyes. I kept mine on the floor of the car. I fiddled with my already-fastened seat belt as my brother sped off, leaving Ole in a rather offensive cloud of Kasi dust.
When I turned around, I saw that she was walking, quite slowly, head down and with hands in pockets, away from the party towards her house.
***
At our house Basi left Moipone and me to sit in the back garden while he went to fetch us something cold to drink. The sun was moving further west, but it would still be another hour or so before dusk.
Moipone and I sat on the large brown blanket that I had laid on the lawn, and chatted while we waited. I noticed that Basi was taking quite a long time. Maybe putting on more cologne? I chuckled at the thought and Moipone turned to me with a questioning look. I just shook my head.
She stared at the fountain with a slight smirk on her face.
She leaned on her elbows, and I did the same. I noticed that she had much bigger breasts than I did, and that her skirt was even shorter than I had realized. I envied her for being allowed to wear it.
“My mother would never let me wear a skirt that short,” I told her. I immediately regretted it when she frowned at me. “I like it,” I added. “My mother never lets me wear anything short.”
She smiled.
“How long have you and Basi been going out?” I asked her.
She smiled sweetly, then shrugged. I didn’t quite know what I wanted to hear from her—but I did have this need to be accepted. I wanted to say something that told her I was just one of the girls, not this stuck-up girl who lived in diEx and went to school in town and spoke English in Kasi.
“My boyfriend and I—you’ll meet him at the dance—we—”
“You have a boyfriend?” She grinned and looked me up and down.
I felt a bit embarrassed. My voice came out too high. “Yes!”
“You’re allowed?”
I giggled in spite of myself. “No. My mother doesn’t know.”
Moipone sat up straight and looked at me. “Boys can wait. You’re too young,” she said.
“Did you have a boyfriend when you were my age?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Your mama didn’t allow it?”
She crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt as she smiled thoughtfully. “My Mama asked. I wasn’t interested.”
I gasped. “Your mama asked?”
Moipone waved my question away. “She’s not like a lot of mamas.”
I could see that.
“You talk about everything?” I asked enviously.
Moipone nodded.
I started picking at the grass. “My brother really likes you, you know,” I heard myself saying. What I really wanted to add was that I liked her too, without even knowing her. I wanted to say that she was beautiful. Stunning.
Remember when you were growing up and you were just old enough to have stopped playing khati or fish or diketo, and you would walk past little girls playing those games and they would say to you, “Aus’ o pila, waitse?” I felt like one of those girls. Like I was seeing an older girl and wishing I’d have her looks and composure when I grew up.
I expected her to grin broadly the way other girls would—most girls at my school, in fact—if I told them my brother had even mentioned their names. But instead, when I looked up, I was surprised by the look of confusion that briefly crossed her face. Then I saw, when I looked behind me, that Basi had just appeared from the house. He didn’t have cooldrinks in his hands but whatever he had, he swiftly tucked behind him when I turned to face him.
Moipone stood up and brushed some grass off the back of her skirt and Basi took her by the hand and led her to the back room.
I knew then.
I just knew what was going on, even though it took me a long time to realize what he must have been hiding behind his back when I turned around.
17
THE CRUNCH, CRUNCH of the pebbles between the house and the back room sounded their retreating steps and I stayed behind and stared at the fountain. I was feeling a bit disappointed that I was not going to be chatting with Moipone longer. For some reason I had imagined that the three of us would be sitting together sipping cooldrinks until the sun went down.
I was walking to the kitchen, thinking that maybe I would go in and phone Kitsano, when I heard the song coming from the radio in the back room. It sounded like Tracy Chapman’s “Baby Can I Hold You,” and I started to laugh because I was surprised that Basi had it on the mix tape. I had insisted that he put it on, since he didn’t like Tracy Chapman, so when I turned around I was only going to share a laugh with him about it—say “Haha, you do like her,” maybe, and that was all.
I had one foot up on the top step leading into the house, but then I—regrettably—changed my mind. I say regrettably because, quite honestly, I would give everything precious in my life to have made a different decision. I can’t tell you how many times since that day I have tried to will myself, in retrospect, to just go into the house. Go into the house, phone Kitsano, take a bath, fantasize about the matric dance.
I would be writing a very different and much more pleasant story if I had done just that.
I heard a raised voice saying “No!” Foolishly, I imagined that this was about the song, and I started hurrying towards the back room. I remember that in my mind I had a silly idea that Moipone and I would laugh at Basi for playing it.
Ugh. I was thirteen.
I walked towards the back room to have a quick laugh and maybe a chat.
I didn’t get past the window.
***
I see it now as if it’s happening still. I see it every night in my dreams, or when I’m awake. I see it from the corner of my eye when I’m at my desk sometimes, trying to work. It appears unexpectedly when I’m going about my business, looking at the post or just hurrying out of the house, when I’m thinking about nothing but the weather or the shape of the moon. And when I’m thinking about my brother or my mother or Moipone. I watch TV and random images of an advert or a silly show morph into the scene in the back room so that I have to turn off the TV and shut my eyes. It’s like a film that never stops rolling.
So ask me whenever you want, wherever I am. Ask me any day of the week, at any time, when I’m awake or dozing off, when I’m busy and when I’m not. Ask me and I will tell it to you, exactly like this. For me this is not as much a memory as it is a scene I am constantly watching as it plays over and over again:
There they are, on the bed. She in her blue-denim skirt and white top and he in below-the-knee shorts and a black T-shirt with the white face of a lion on the back. It is a new T-shirt that he and my mother bought recently after he won a tennis match. My brother always has been a sharp dresser but he makes even more of an effort these days, wearing his newest or best clothes when he goes to see Moipone.
There is a perfect red rose on the bed, which he must have picked from Mama’s garden, and which must have been what he was holding behind his back.
Wow. Romantic, I think.
Years gone by and still; Words don’t come easily, sings Tracy.
Moipone pushes him and my brother pulls her. And at first it seems like a game. I think I even see them smile at each other.
He cups his hand at the back of her head and pulls her face towards him, then she allows him to kiss her for a second before she pulls back. He puts his other hand under her top, and then the hand moves over her breasts, caressing them slowly. Then she takes the hand out and pulls down her shirt to cover her stomach. He puts his hand up her skirt and she pulls it out and crosses her legs. Then he lies down on his back and pats the space at his side, saying, “Come here.”
I can hear him. I hear and see everything because I am looking through a window and the window is open and the curtains don’t obscure my view. They hide nothing.
She looks down at the space and says, “No. I should go home. My mother’s waiting. I have to cook tonight.”
Baby, can I hold you tonight . . . Maybe if I told you the right words, ooh, at the right time . . .
He hears nothing she says, it seems, because he runs his fingers up her leg, and then pulls her close to kiss her neck. She tries again to push his hand away, but this time he grabs her thigh and she can’t push it away. She starts to stand up but he pulls her back down. She starts again and again he pulls her back down.
It stops looking like a game.
He pushes her onto the bed and pushes her skirt up. She slaps him hard, repeatedly and vigorously with both hands, but he doesn’t move—in fact, he barely flinches.
I don’t think she has a chance.
His one hand is busy pulling down her panties and his other one is pushing down her wrists. She is wr
iggling and he keeps saying, “Ssshh . . . ssshh, I won’t hurt you. I love you, I won’t hurt you. Shhh, it’s not painful. It’s not painful. I’ve done it before. You’ll like it. It’s not painful.” His voice is a very strange cross between soothing and commanding. He is moving with a brutish force that I have only seen in him when he plays sports. He is so focussed, unaware of anything else around him. His eyes narrow as if he is facing an opponent in a game—or a fight. He seems unaware of her even as he places his hand firmly over her mouth. His face is up, looking somewhere above her, behind her. He doesn’t even take off his pants, just unbuttons his buckle and is swiftly on top of her, his hand still on her mouth.
“Ssshh . . . sshh . . . nnnn . . . nnnnn . . . shush . . . ”
I love you . . . Is all that you can say . . .
Her cries of protest have now stopped. All she does is give the quick, low grunts of someone in pain. Her eyes are tightly shut, her arms still pinned down by my brother’s left hand, but now her face turns—his right hand still on her mouth—and she faces my way.
Is she now suddenly aware that they are not the only ones here?
She looks at the open window, past the blue curtains billowing in the evening breeze, and her eyes land on me.
She is silent and still. I don’t move. I only stare. She looks as if she has given up. She is not crying or moving or doing anything.
“Ssshh . . . shhh . . . aah . . . aaah . . . ” my brother goes on.
She doesn’t say a word. The lion moves up, down, up, down, up, down.
It could roar, I think. It looks alive.
Baby, can I hold you tonight . . . Maybe if I told you the right words, ooh, at the right time, you’d be mine . . .
I promise you, I tried to move. But my legs may as well have been immersed in cement. I just couldn’t do anything.
Did I stay because I wanted to see? With all my heart, no . . . I don’t think I wanted to see. At first, maybe. But I think in the end I couldn’t do anything but see.
This Book Betrays My Brother Page 12
