“So. I remember that party. Do you remember that party?” Aus’ Johanna sometimes told me about people and places and expected me to know exactly what she was talking about. When I inevitably didn’t—since she was a good ten years older than me and didn’t have any of the same friends—she still looked puzzled.
“I don’t remember,” I said and shook my head, suggesting that I had merely forgotten.
“That was a good party. It was nice. A lot of people I know were having their twenty-firsts that year and I wore that skirt and those shoes to many parties.” She laughed at the memory and clapped her hands. “Iyooo! And I was still with Makhaola,” she added.
Makhaola had been her first and only boyfriend for many years and I always got the sense that she still loved and missed him.
“That’s when you heard about the body,” I tried to bring her back.
“Hoh! That body. Ah, ah, aaahh! That body . . . that was a girl who had been at that party.”
I inhaled sharply. After all these years?
“That’s what my brother tells me. He says, ‘Eish, Jo. That was a wild party. You know those guys from Jozi? They had come with that girl from there. She was a good friend of one of the guys.’ And, and . . . and so she had come along with him and his friends. She didn’t know anyone here.”
A customer stood at the counter in front of us and said, “One packet chips.” I jumped, so engrossed was I in the story.
Aus’ Johanna stood up and walked over to the customer, her shoes clap-clapping against her heels. Aus’ Johanna always walked around the shop like she was at a time-sensitive business event. She dressed like it too. I watched impatiently as she picked up the money, reached over to the chips shelf and turned to the till to get the customer’s change.
Someone walked in through the door and I was relieved when they went over to the fridge to select some meat instead of coming to the counter. It felt like it had been a year before Aus’ Johanna came back over to sit next to me.
“What happened to her?” I said quickly.
“She was—” She turned her head to the door, waved at someone and said, “O kae?” before turning back to me.
She smoothed her skirt again. Aus’ Johanna was always in the process of grooming.
“I was still telling you about the girl.”
“Yes! The body—the girl!”
“Hey, she’s not just a body, wena! She was a woman, just like you and me. And then she was killed!” As she said “killed” she gave a loud clap! with her hands.
“They know who killed her?”
“Raped and killed. One of the men who had come with her finally confessed. He told the police he hadn’t slept in years. Said he wanted to die because, heheeee—” She pressed her fingers to her eyes and shook her head. “Because he said that girl comes to him at night. Tortures him . . . heh!”
“Nightmares?”
“Stop chewing your nails. Did you just start doing that? A girl needs to look beautiful. No boy wants to see chewed-up nails.”
“Sorry.”
“Paint them nicely and then you’ll get a boyfriend.”
“OK.”
“Eish, what was I saying? Hoh . . . the boy. No, nightmares? No, not nightmares. Nightmares are dreams. A se toro! He sees her. She comes. She comes like Vera-the-Ghost . . .
“Naledi? What’s wrong? Ha haaa! Don’t be scared. She won’t come to you! Now you’re scared. Did I scare you? Don’t worry, man. It’s his problem . . .
“Naledi? Ke eng? Are you afraid of ghosts?
“Naledi? Don’t cry. Hao! Why are you crying? Shame, it breaks your heart, doesn’t it? I know. It broke my heart too. I wanted to cry when my brother told me . . .
“Heh! That’s being a woman in the world. These are the things men do . . . You have to be careful. You have to protect yourself.”
“But I suppose she thought she was protected because he was her best friend, huh?” I eventually managed.
“Eish . . . ah! You never know.”
“Re tla re eng?”
“Imagine. Someone she knew so well . . . ” After a long pause in which her thoughts seemed to take her far away, she said, “My mother said there is a reason why most ghosts are women. Here, use my tissue . . .
“You can’t say anything? Don’t speak. O sa wara. O sa lela, Nedi. That’s how things happen between men and women sometimes. Watch who you call your friends. Men have different needs . . . It’s natural. All men have those needs. Watch who you call your friends,” she kept saying. “Be careful of the drunks and the cowards.”
“You said this guy was her friend,” I reminded her, between sobs.
“Ja,” she said. “But maybe he never really was. Maybe he always looked at her a certain way. You see?”
And how did you know? I thought. How does any girl know?
Aus’ Johanna’s eyes suddenly got wider. “It’s the thing Moipone doesn’t realize.”
I sat up. “What?”
“That men have needs. That you can’t just go to a guy’s house alone with him and go to his bedroom and—”
“His bedroom?”
“Yes, I heard she went into his bedroom and—”
“Who told you that?”
“Joyce, who lives next door to me. I don’t know how she could have gone there in a short skirt and a sexy top and lain on his bed and expected us to believe she didn’t know what was going to happen.”
She waved to someone else and asked after his children before continuing.
“And she was his girlfriend, not just some friend. She was his girlfriend and she went into his bedroom. How can a man rape his girlfriend? It’s like saying a man raped his wife. It’s stupid. It’s nonsense.”
“I don’t know . . . I don’t think she went into his room. I think we don’t know the whole truth—”
Aus’ Johanna slapped me lightly on my wrist. “Heh! Nedi, this is your brother, wena. I heard you said something to Ole. I hope it’s not true.” She gave me a warning look. “Your brother would never do that to you, would he? Stop saying there’s this story and that story. Everyone knows what Ole wanted, so let’s not talk about Ole. We all saw the way she looked at Moipone.” She clicked her tongue. “Sies! She’s not even ashamed! Mxm.” She smoothed her skirt again. “But you are a different story. Support your brother. Stop saying we don’t know the truth. Basi knows the truth.”
“Basi and Moipone?”
“Yes, the two of them. But she’s not telling the truth.”
I nodded, just to calm her wrath.
“Nedi, did you know—did you know—that she was at Nkele’s doing her hair the morning before the party? What was she expecting? Nkele says she asked her to make it look beautiful. Heh? Who knows why she’s lying? Maybe she wanted fame. Maybe she slept with someone else and she wants her mother to think she was raped. Some women check their girls, you know. Maybe her mother knows she’s not a virgin any more and this is how she’s explaining herself.”
***
A few weeks later a story circulated in Kasi about how Moipone had slept with a guy from school and hadn’t come home the night before, and when her mother asked her if she was still a virgin, she said Basi had raped her.
The story stuck for a long time. I’d say that if you went to Marapong today and asked those who are still around, those who tell the tale like an old location classic, that is the version you’d get.
EPILOGUE
YOU DO KNOW MY BROTHER, don’t you? I’ve been thinking it’s best I don’t continue without acknowledging that probability. It would be insulting, I think.
Of course you know him; he lives right here, and if you haven’t seen him you’ve probably, definitely, heard of him. You admire him, I expect. Maybe you watched him defend those men last year, or you were among the many who followed that very
famous case of those women a few years ago. Yes, the whole country knows him. What impresses you more, I wonder? That he is so young, so arrestingly handsome? Or is it his ever-determined and, as some have put it, “fierce and unprecedented” pursuit of justice?
For me, it is all of these things.
Through the years I’ve bumped into many old girls from school, now grown women, some with families and some without, all of them with fond memories—and enduring admiration—for my brother. All of them excitedly remind me that they “knew Basi when . . . ”
“Why did he ever leave?” some will ask.
“I can’t believe how that all happened,” others are still saying.
“I’m still shocked at what some women will do to one of our own men,” a few have told me angrily.
One person I’ve seen more times than I care to is Dineo. She works as a doctor in Tshwane, along with many of the people we went to school with. I see her because we move in some of the same circles, meaning that we’re still friends with some old girls and because our mothers’ friendship has stood the test of time.
“Dineo still loves Basi,” Mama has told me too many times. “She still phones him.”
I’m sure.
But Basi has never mentioned her. Not since he left. I know from Dineo that they sometimes did see each other when they were both at varsity. Dineo says they “have drinks or whatever,” once in a while.
Basi doesn’t speak of the past as much as the rest of us do.
In fact, the only time I spoke to him about the old days, the first time, was just a few months ago, when I said to him, “Ole teaches at Wits.” I think there has always been this urge to say something, but I never could. For years I haven’t even been able to mention people from home, people we grew up with—old friends about whom we should normally be able to chat and laugh. I don’t even wonder out loud about someone like Five Bop. But that day I felt bold, for some reason. Maybe because it was the day following a particularly difficult night.
I had been in the bath for the better part of it, turning the tap on and off until there was no hot water left. It was in the days following my accidental meeting with Moipone.
So after I told him about Ole, Basi shook his head and laughed.
“Tjo! Nedi, you’re still friends with Ole?”
As if she were an amusing, distant memory.
“Basi, you’re still friends with Kgosi,” I said.
We were at Basi’s house in one of the new suburbs around Menlyn. He had been busy cleaning his very flashy black BMW—something he says he does to “clear his head.” My brother has so many cases these days that his work leaves him with very little time to himself. When he is home, he savours his quality time. Some days he drives to Kgosi’s house just across the street, and the two of them wash their cars together. Kgosi, now an engineer, has the same car in red.
Basi leaned out from the passenger seat where he had been wiping the red-leather seats and said, “Come on. It’s not the same.”
“Why not? We’re all childhood friends,” I countered.
Basi looked down at the ground and clenched his jaw.
“Why not?” I persisted, feeling bolder than I had in years, my ears burning hotter than they had since the day Basi had left and Mama had said, “You shame us.”
Basi’s head ducked in and he busied his hands with wiping the dashboard. I stood in front of the car, its black metal glistening in the sun, its two doors wide open and its powerful speakers blaring an old Babyface song, and I waited for my brother to say something.
For the first time I was ready to speak to him. Answer his questions, if he had any, admit what I had done, defend myself if I had to.
I listened to the sound of my head throbbing and my heart pounding and refused to let my hands fidget. I willed my feet to stay put. I waited and waited as the white cloth moved back and forth over the dashboard and my brother said nothing.
Finally his head came out of the car. Instead of looking at me, he picked up the bucket of dirty, soapy water and walked over to the outdoor basin. He took his time. Finally, he turned and walked towards me.
At the car Basi leaned his back against the bonnet and put his hands delicately but firmly in front of him.
I lost my nerve a bit then, found myself thinking that maybe I would just let it go, maybe it wasn’t worth it. What did I have to gain, I wondered, now that it was all done and in the past? It was such a long time ago . . .
When Basi’s eyes finally rose from the ground, they landed firmly and unwaveringly on mine. I forced myself to stare back. I have a difficult time looking people in the eye. My eyes tend to move around. I’ve never been as calm and comfortable with myself as my brother is. But meeting his gaze seemed to rattle him a little bit. I found myself facing a slightly uncomfortable and surprised-looking Basi.
In a second, though, Basi gathered himself. I was reminded of that day, a long time ago, when I had seen him so nervous as he got ready to see Moipone, and then how quickly he had stilled and composed himself.
I’m no match for my brother, I thought hopelessly.
Basi forced a soft, pitying smile.
“Listen. That girl hurt our family,” he finally said. “You know that.”
His eye twitched and then he blurted, “Ole hurt our family! Running to the police, taking something you had told her out of context—”
“What?!” I surprised myself by throwing my arms in the air, but then watched, mortified, as spittle flew from my mouth and landed on the just-cleaned car.
Basi followed its move as it started trickling like a single tear down the black of the car.
He didn’t move or say anything as I turned sharply and marched to the basin, retrieved the dry white cloth that he had been using. He stood staring at me with no expression as I reached over and rubbed the spit longer and harder than I needed to. Like I was having a tantrum at age five.
Shame on you, I reprimanded myself. Even today? Even now, after everything, you still can’t say anything to him?
“Nedi, look . . . I’m not angry with you.”
It was like calling your parents’ house and hearing a stranger’s voice answer the phone.
“Angry?” I heard my voice say.
“Yes,” he said without moving, his eyes squarely on mine. “I know it was never your fault. I know . . . ” he said and started moving towards me. “I know what kind of person—what kind of sister—you are.”
I was confused, my heart softening, my body relaxing as he put his hands firmly on my shoulders. There was something in my throat, my eyes spilling over.
My brother held me and said, “You wouldn’t have done that. You wouldn’t have done something so despicable. Something that was such a lie. Such a lie.” His arms held me tightly, as if protecting me from my own misunderstanding.
What could I do or say? Here was my opportunity to say no, that I had understood very well what had happened, that he had committed a crime. But hadn’t I always wanted him to tell me that I was wrong? Hadn’t I always wanted him to tell me that my limited understanding of sex had confused me? What would you have said?
I said nothing.
Basi started walking away from me, bucket in his hand.
I don’t know what it was. Maybe the rage I felt when he turned around and winked. Maybe the easy, carefree way he swung the bucket. Maybe it was the relaxed Basi swagger. Or maybe—and I suspect this is it—maybe it was the crunch-crunch-crunch of his feet in his own pebbled walkway. I’ll never understand how that sound doesn’t squeeze at his heart.
I tried to control my voice, but it came out sounding as enraged as I felt.
“It happened to me too, you know,” I started my lie.
Basi swung around, sending water flying.
“What?” he said, his face contorted with confusion.
�
�A guy did that to me. It was at varsity . . . ” I was shaking from fury and my lie. I put both hands on my cheeks and willed myself to stand still, my eyes focussing on the stones on the ground. “This guy . . . We were going out and he—well, we went to his room all the time, but this time, I guess . . . I don’t know . . . ”
I went to sit down on a chair near the car, kept my hands on my cheeks and my eyes on the ground.
Basi rushed to me and crouched in front of me.
I took a deep breath. “Anyway . . . long story short—”
“No! No long story short! I can’t believe this happened to you! What? When? Why didn’t you tell? Nedi, don’t cut the story short. They force women to tell the whole story in court. You’d better tell me . . . I’m your brother.”
“Basi, stop. He was my boyfriend and he was sure I had misunderstood. That I had wanted the same thing.”
My brother raised my chin so that we were locking eyes.
“Nedi,” he said, and I could feel the rage in his voice. I could imagine it rising from the pit of his stomach, and I could see him fighting to stay calm. After a breath or two, his well-practised lawyer voice was so calm that what he said next sounded perfectly reasonable. “I’ll kill him! Who was it? I’ll find out and—”
“Basi . . . ” I tried to sound like an understanding counsellor. Once, at varsity, I had gone to see a counsellor, but only once. She had spoken to me like she was a mother and I a child, and I’d resented her for her forced, unfamiliar sweetness. I never went back, but now I tried her voice on Basi. “I think that’s what Moipone thought. I think she was, maybe, I don’t know, but I think she thought it was . . . forced.”
Basi stood up abruptly. “It’s not the same thing!”
“Maybe . . . But it could be, couldn’t it?”
“Nedi, it was so long ago! I was young . . . You don’t understand.”
“Tell me what I don’t understand.”
This Book Betrays My Brother Page 16
