This Book Betrays My Brother

by Kagiso Lesego Molope

  I couldn’t move. I really couldn’t.

  Then the gaze in Moipone’s eyes rises, detaching, and moves up around the room, looking somewhere past me, then slowly, absently, coming back and settling on me. She seems to actually look at me, but then she turns her face again and her cheek, being close to the rose, is pierced by a thorn. My brother, seemingly unaware, pushes her face further down onto the thorn, creating a long, deep cut as she shifts. She shuts her eyes tightly, and this is when I finally move.

  I tiptoe away, my hand on my mouth to keep from screaming or crying or yelling.

  I walk back into the house, careful not to make a sound.

  ***

  I ran into the bathroom and filled the basin with water. I steadily held onto the edges of the basin and leaned forward, immersing my face in the ice-cold water. I let it completely cover my face and didn’t care about my hair, so that my lips and nose were touching the bottom of the basin.

  I turned my face, let the water sting my open eyes. I stared, watched the water float around me, felt it go into my ears and heard only the soothing sound of bubbles while one ear was pressed against the cold ceramic. I turned the tap with one hand while the other held onto the edge of the basin for balance. I wanted to curl my whole body into a small ball and submerge it in that basin, disappear into the world of water, with no sound of screams or grunts of pain.

  Sometimes in the night, when I start seeing them in the back room again, I wake up and I turn on the water and immerse my whole body—nightdress on or naked—into the solitary world of cold, comforting water. It’s even more soothing than music. I can stay in there for a very long time, or until I stop thinking. I have spent entire evenings and the better part of many pre-dawn hours in cold baths with no sound, willing away my thoughts. I even missed a class or two at varsity—in those first few months when I was getting used to being away from home and living once again close to Basi.

  That day, when I finally thought I could walk steadily again, I slowly came up for air. Without drying my head with a towel, I ran into my room and shut the door, locking it behind me. I climbed onto the bed and covered my head with a pillow, too shocked to cry.

  ***

  Their footsteps pulled me away from the bed and I went to see what was happening. From my window I could see in the faint light of dusk Moipone hurrying home and my brother walking—not rushing—behind her. She was holding up her hand, pressing it against her chin. I wanted to tell her not to go that way alone, that it was getting dark. This is a feeling that has lasted all these years: me wanting to tell Moipone to stay safe. I wanted her to run away that night—to go as far away as possible—but couldn’t stand the realization that it was my brother I wanted her to run from.

  My brother, whose room and words and arms had always spelt safety for me.

  Oh, I felt cold! Colder than a winter’s night. My body was covered in goosebumps and my teeth clattered. I kicked off my shoes—saw them fly across the room and hit the pink wall, leaving a mark. I wrapped a blanket around me, then I climbed into bed without taking off my clothes. I lay face down with one pillow, then two, on top of my head, pressing down harder and harder, willing away my headache and making a salty puddle on my sheets with my tears. I never, ever, wanted to leave my bedroom again.

  18

  NEWS AND GOSSIP in the location spreads swiftly in all directions like tear gas on a Wednesday afternoon in the eighties. People always have their ears open for something new and as the saying goes: Tsebe ga e na sekhurumelo. Nothing goes unseen or unheard. And then it all gets thoroughly picked apart and examined around bonfires and kitchen tables, across fences and through the dust being agitated by a morning broom.

  It was already dark when Moipone returned home that evening and, of course, many people saw her. I heard that her mother had been looking for her, frantically asking people at the party where she was as if she knew something was going on. Many, many people had seen Moipone get into the car with us; more specifically, they had seen Basi holding the door open for her as she willingly (they’d emphasize) climbed into the front passenger seat.

  Long after the dust had settled it seemed the memory of her bare legs under a tiny skirt would linger in people’s minds. Hardly anyone could tell you what my brother was wearing at that party. In fact, it has never been brought up by anyone since. I would even say that the only time I had an inkling that I was not the only person who noticed Basi’s clothes was when Ole—in a fit of rage—said something like, “ . . . and him in his black lion shirt . . . ”

  While I was hiding in my bed under large pillows, willing the memory away, Moipone was sitting on the sofa in her very small sitting room, crying to her mother about what had just happened. She told this to Ole, who later told me.

  ***

  After Basi had walked Moipone home, he had gone back to the party.

  That he walked her home would later prove to be a crucial detail in the retelling of the story by witnesses—people who knew only that they had seen her getting into the car with us and then walking back home at dusk with him. According to them, Basi walked back into the party that evening, sat down with his friends and carried on until late, when Papa had driven over to fetch him and they had come back home.

  “Now, you tell me who would do that if, let’s say, something like that had happened?” was what Five Bop asked me two weeks later, in the heat of the ensuing debate, after the news had come out. “Not Basi,” he said. “Not my brother.”

  “Not Basi” became the theme in subsequent weeks. “Not our Bafana.”

  ***

  When Papa and Basi arrived back at home I was asleep and I would stay asleep until early Sunday morning, when Mama woke us up so that we would get ready for the shop. On Sundays the workers were given the day off and the four of us managed by ourselves. It was always quiet at first as people woke up late or went to church; the noise and the bustle would increase towards the late afternoon, when they had had their Sunday lunches and were ready to go out and see friends and neighbours.

  I didn’t see Basi in the morning because he was still in his room when I left with Mama. I felt myself walking stealthily around the house, tiptoeing, avoiding his room with its closed door, which was just across the passage. I tried to calm myself as I moved through the usual morning routine, trying not to think about anything but what I was doing right then and there: Take a bath; put your clothes on, one by one. Put your feet in your shoes; put the comb through your hair.

  In the car I looked out at the unusually quiet streets, at the lone Sunday-morning walker, the woman with a bag who was still going to work on a day when most people were resting, at the lorry filled with weekend vegetables, and I thought: See. Nothing strange is going on here. It’s fine. Whatever happened, I’m sure they’ll find a way to talk about it. It’s between the two of them.

  Mama and I drove through the quiet streets without saying a lot to each other. It was only when we crossed over to Kasi and saw Five Bop standing over a bowl of water outside his house, washing his face with no shirt on, that Mama said, “Was he at this party yesterday?”

  I looked over at Five Bop getting ready for the day and wondered what he knew. I wondered if Mama had seen Basi before he went to sleep the night before, if she had thought something was terribly wrong with him or not. I looked over at her and saw no signs of concern, only that she seemed annoyed.

  She shook her head with disgust. “I don’t know when Basi will ever start living in his own world.”

  I turned away from her, opened the window and took the air in big gulps. Tjo! I was so tired. I felt exhaustion come in waves and overwhelm me at different moments during that whole day.

  “What was it like, then?” Mama never had anything nice to say about Aus’ Nono but she was always curious about her. She wanted to know everything that happened with her and was never impressed with any of it. The more sh
e heard, the louder her tongue clicked and the more she pursed her lips with disapproval. But she kept on asking.

  “Fine,” I said, my face still turned the other way.

  “What was she like? Nozipho? What was she like?”

  I shrugged. “She looked fine,” I told her. “Thin,” I added.

  Mama adjusted her hands on the steering wheel. “Thin? Mxm. That’s what happens in prison.”

  I didn’t respond, only watched the houses with their windows and doors now opening, people stepping outside, sweeping their yards and getting ready for the day.

  “She must have had a good lawyer. I can’t believe that she’s out already. What did Basi say about that? I’m sure he thinks they didn’t let her out soon enough.”

  I turned around and looked at her. She looked me up and down as if daring me to contradict her.

  “What did he say? Did he say, ‘It’s not fair! She deserves justice’?”

  The only time that I ever heard Mama mocking Basi was in relation to Kgosi and his mother. Something happened to her when she thought about him with them. She came undone.

  “He thinks she’s innocent, you know?” she told me as we drove the car behind the shop. “Ha! Or maybe not innocent but justified. Heeee. Iyo, Basi! My child.”

  She was shaking her head as she picked up her bag and furiously climbed out of the car. I thought her hand was shaking when she pulled the key from her bag, put it to the lock and turned it.

  “What does he tell you?” she was asking as we started our opening ritual, turning the alarm off and the lights on. “Hmm? What does he tell you?”

  I didn’t say anything because I didn’t think she was really interested in my answer. I walked around to let her speak without me getting in her way. She was getting angrier and angrier, moving things around she didn’t really need to, dusting shelves while I mopped the floors.

  “These people are not like us,” she ranted. “They’re just not. They never have been. Basi won’t listen. Will he? No, he won’t. Maybe if your father pushed him to stay away from them. Maybe then. But no, your father won’t do that. He grew up with Kgosi’s parents. He was friends with Nozipho in high school, did you know that?”

  I didn’t.

  “They were in the same class. She used to copy his homework. They used to be best friends. They haven’t seen each other since he married me. I told him, after we’re married, no more.” I remembered him at the welcome party but didn’t want to fan the fire.

  At some point Basi and Papa walked in. As soon as I heard the door close I felt my heart race and I dreaded the moment my eyes would have to meet my brother’s. I kept my head down then, mopping harder and longer than was necessary. But apparently I didn’t need to worry.

  “Eish!” I heard Basi’s voice from behind me. “That party was great! I went to bed so late, I can’t believe I had to wake up and come here this morning.”

  When I turned around he was carrying boxes of tea and packing them on the shelf. He kissed my forehead the way he often did when he saw me.

  “You should have gone back with me . . . ,” he was saying. He went on talking but I hardly heard any of it because I was staring at him, at his mouth moving and his hand stroking his head. He smiled and shrugged the way he did sometimes in the middle of telling a story.

  “ . . . and Five Bop was grabbing the beer . . . We just laughed at that . . . ”

  None of it made sense. It all came into my ears in strange little bursts.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I forced smiles and nods, forcing myself to stay in the moment and trying not to look anxious.

  “You’re mopping the same spot, Nedi,” he said.

  “Ah.”

  “Are you listening?”

  “Ja! Ja, I’m listening.”

  “Did you sleep well? You look tired.”

  “Ja. I slept—”

  Basi’s hands were free; all the tea boxes were on the shelves. He was coming towards me and I felt my body stiffen. I kept my eyes on the floor, on his white tekkies with the large, black Nike swoosh. He reached over and put his arm around me, and his lips came and landed softly, gently, on my right temple. Just like that. Like it was just an ordinary day.

  Then he pulled back, alarm on his face.

  “Nedi, are you OK? Your face is hot. You’re sweating.”

  My head was racing, trying to think of a lie. “I think you’re right.” My voice came out in barely a whisper. I started to walk around him, careful not to touch. “You should stay away. I think I may be getting sick.”

  “Mama!” I heard him yell behind me. “Nedi should go home—I think she’s sick.”

  19

  THERE WERE TWO DAYS left before the dance and I was wondering what happened between girls and boys in love—what I had always imagined versus the reality.

  What did I know? Not much, apart from what I’d seen in films and on TV, where man and woman ended up happily and perfectly together, to the accompaniment of soft and romantic music.

  Ole and I had had one or two conversations about her showing her breasts to boys but as she had often made clear, what boys did or didn’t like was of no interest to her.

  Limakatso was the most experienced of my friends, which really only meant that she had seen a naked boy. She used so many sexual innuendos that it was not always easy to understand her—and most of the time it was just too embarrassing to even ask her to explain.

  At the time I don’t know how far ahead I had thought. Not much past the kissing and caressing of the inner thigh, I think. A naked guy was roaming somewhere around the corners of my imagination, but I wouldn’t say he was at the forefront.

  But the closer we got to the dance, the more frightened I felt of being alone in the dark with Kitsano. What did people do before a night of high expectations? Did they phone each other or have a meeting where each established what the other expected?

  Could I phone him and say casually, “Don’t laugh, but my friend Kelelo thinks her date wants to have sex the night of the dance. What do you think? Haha!”

  Who knew?

  ***

  “Just a few more days, chommie!” Limakatso had said to me that Monday morning.

  “Five!” squealed Kelelo.

  The two of them screamed, holding on to each other.

  I bit into my apple and only smiled in response. We were sitting on the lawn near the tennis courts with our legs crossed, eating our lunch.

  Limakatso put her hands on my shoulders and shook me like she was bringing me back to life. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know, you guys.” I tried for an acceptable lie. “I don’t think I like my dress.”

  “I still haven’t seen it,” said Limakatso.

  “Ja. I just know it’s really, really nice,” Kelelo chimed in.

  “OK. Ja. It is, right?” Iyo! I could perk up at a moment’s notice in those days.

  “We’ll love it!” Limakatso slapped me gently on the thigh. “Stop looking so gloomy and tell us about the kiss.”

  I cleared my throat.

  “And how much sucking face you plan to do,” Limakatso insisted.

  “Yes!” Kelelo squealed. “What are you going to let him do?”

  “Or should we say: What are you going to do to him?”

  I laughed in spite of myself, and then I felt a rush of cold down my spine and a knot in my stomach.

  “Hello! Tell. Now!” Kelelo was waving her hands all over the place. She could get really dramatic when she felt like it.

  My friends were really excited for me to go on the big date. They wanted details, so I went on and on about the dress, trying to avoid thinking about the groping because the thought had suddenly occurred to me: I don’t really want to go any more. But I can’t tell anyone. Also: I’m not supposed to know anything about w
hat happened between Basi and Moipone. So I can’t say anything.

  Then the thought that weighed most heavily on me: Did Moipone see me looking?

  ***

  Of course, by the middle of the week the stories had spread and there was fire and hell in the location. I learnt then that if you think people get angry when they feel wrongly accused, you haven’t seen a person’s rage when they think their child is wrongly accused. Point a finger at a woman and she’ll hurt you; point one at her child and she’ll kill you. The saying “Mma ngwana o tshwara thipa mo bogaleng” is not to be taken lightly. Not if you want to get out of the place alive.

  Moipone—poor Moipone—was to learn this in the worst way.

  I don’t know what she said to her mother but I do know that they were awake for many hours that Saturday night, probably talking and crying. The light in their sitting room was the only one in the neighbourhood that was lit up all night—or at least it was still glowing at 2 am, when Ole woke up in her room and went to use the loo.

  I also know that Five Bop had seen Moipone the following Monday morning as he stood at the side of the road waiting to wave down a taxi to take him to his first day at a new job in town. She didn’t say “Ja, Five” when she walked past him; her shoulders were uncharacteristically slouched, and her tired eyes red and swollen. She had given him a little nod instead of stopping to chat. Everyone knew that he had finally got a job, and it had caused some bursts of celebration all around. But she had kept walking. Five recalled being a little bit annoyed. So he had yelled out “I’m going to work!” waving his white scafteen that carried a sandwich, an apple and a bottle of water. Moipone had politely turned around and responded “O tsamae pila” with a forced smile. Five had decided that there had probably been a death in the family and resolved to ask someone about it after work. In the meantime he had pointed his forefinger to the sky and let the eighteen-seaters zoom by as he waited for a sixteen-seater, until he realized that if he waited any longer then he would be late.