by Paige Nick
‘Why are you calling me, Matt? What do you want?’
‘I thought considering everything that happened, maybe you could help a guy out. I’m a bit strapped right now. I’m not looking for a handout, I’ve got some great ideas for stories on the ex-President – I have access to him at the moment, I’m not bullshitting this time, I swear. I’m staying right here at the Homestead. I just need someone to give me a shot.’
‘You’ve got a cheek, Matthew. Are you really trying to blackmail me into buying one of your bullshit stories? I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Grow the fuck up and take some responsibility for yourself. Get some help.’
How many times does a guy have to get hung up on before he totally loses his shit? I reach for the lumpy pillow, hold it against my face and scream into it.
My phone bleeps as two more texts come in:
Are you staying away from dairy, my boy?
You know it always gives you such a bad tummy.
19 DAYS TILL DEADLINE
THE EX-PRESIDENT
‘Dear recording machine, great news. I think I may have found an investor. At last. Hallelujah. I was starting to wonder when it was all going to come together, because I am more than ready to launch myself back into the limelight.
‘I always thought my new patron would be someone I knew from my life before all this hardship. Perhaps someone I worked with in government, in business, or even an old struggle comrade, someone who owes me a favour from back then. There are plenty of those, a whole cabinet-full. That’s politics. You scratch my back, and later I’ll put out a tender for yours.
‘But what a blessing to stumble into Elijah, just when I needed someone like him most. And when we were having lunch, the whole plan came directly into my head, fully formed. He’s still going to speak to his people, but I have a good feeling about this.
‘I filled him in on my big master plan, about the showerheads and the plane and customs and everything, then we went to Vida and sat there for hours talking through the details. He says I’ve got a lot of chutzpah for a goy; it’s Yiddish for it’s a really great idea and he likes me a lot.
‘Anyway, I don’t care if he’s a Scientologist who speaks in sign language, so long as everything goes my way.
‘We still have a lot to figure out, though, and we will have to get to work immediately, first thing tomorrow, or maybe at about eleven. At last I can see an end to my suffering. Except for the pain in my right buttock, there doesn’t seem to be an end to that.’
Sudden loud knocking interrupts Muza’s recording. He stops the machine and listens. It’s coming from the front door, like last time, although this time the dog’s not barking. All he can hear is distant goat-bleating. More knocks come, louder and more insistent.
‘There’s someone at the door,’ Muza shouts. He can hear the buzz of the sewing machine in the office and his wives chatting. ‘Wives!’ he shouts again. ‘I said, there’s someone at the door.’
Again there’s no response, only the knocking.
Muza heaves himself off the stool and stomps through the house clucking to himself. What does an ex-President have to do to get good help these days?
THE PAROLE OFFICER
Vuyokazi pats the dog on the head. He wags his tail and licks her hand. Sweet thing, she thinks, although he could use a bath. She bangs at the wooden panel on the door with the side of her fist again, as there doesn’t seem to be a doorbell. Or a door handle. Or a window-pane.
She steps back and looks around. The exterior of the Homestead is in a shocking state. Broken windows, rude words graffitied on the walls, trash strewn everywhere, the garden untended. Only a few old goats and scrawny chickens taking care of the place now. Not quite the picture of the majestic Homestead that Muza had painted. And especially painful to witness, considering how much taxpayer’s money went into the security upgrades here a decade ago. Money that could have educated or housed thousands, or offered basic medical care to the desperately needy. It made her head and her heart hurt, but it was why she did what she did. Somebody had to push back against corruption.
Surprise home visits are not the best part of Vuyokazi’s job. You never know what you’re going to find. And she’s seen some things over the last few years. The crack den in Phoenix, that chop shop in Inanda, the dog-fighting in that back yard in Ntuzuma. But she doesn’t have a choice. It’s her duty to ensure her parolees have an adequate, appropriate, and legal roof over their heads, and that they’re following the terms of their parole. That’s her job, and she takes it very seriously.
‘Mrs Ngcobo? What a surprise!’ Muza opens the door, startling her. He’s wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms, a vest, the ankle bracelet, and a pair of push-ins. The dog starts a low motorbike growl.
‘Mr Muza, this is an unscheduled home visit, as required by the terms of your parole. I hope I haven’t come at a bad time?’
‘No, of course not. It’s always an excellent treat to see you. But forgive me, had I known you were coming, I would have dressed. You should have called.’
‘Yes, but then it wouldn’t be a surprise visit.’
‘True, true,’ Muza says.
‘I’m sorry to see the smashed windows; it looks like you’ve had some trouble here,’ Vuyokazi says.
‘Yes, it’s a shame, but everyone wants a memento from this great place, a souvenir from the ancestral home of their great and fearless leader, which is why many of the parts are missing. As soon as we replace them, they are quick to disappear again. Here in this front door alone, I had a hand-crafted stained-glass window that cost more than seventy-seven thousand rands.’
Vuyokazi baulks: ‘Seventy-seven thousand rands, for one window?’
‘It was a vital security upgrade at the time, Mrs Ncgobo.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, we needed to be able to see out of it, and make sure whoever was at the door was a friend and not an enemy, like that Thuli, coming to nose around our mandatory upgrades for her propaganda report.’
‘Perhaps you could have gotten a peephole instead?’ Vuyokazi says.
‘It’s of great importance that the President of the country is kept safe, I don’t know why you people cannot understand this,’ Muza says.
‘I agree with the sentiment, Mr Muza, I’m just not sure I agree with the methodology.’
‘Shall we agree to disagree then, Mrs Ncgobo?’
‘I don’t see that we have any other choice. May I come in?’
‘Yes, please come in. I will show you my office, it was once very grand, but since I’m such a magnanimous man, you’ll see that I have insisted that my wives use it for their businesses. They refused, of course, but I was adamant. It’s this kind of generosity and spirit of equality that made me such a great President in the past and will do so again in the future. These women are lucky to have me.’
‘Good dog,’ Vuyokazi says, patting the mutt on the head again before she steps into the house. He wags his tail at her.
‘That’s odd, he doesn’t like anyone,’ Muza says, leading her in.
18 DAYS TILL DEADLINE
THE WIVES
‘Nice lady, hey Fils,’ says Bonang.
‘I thought so too.’
‘She’s got her hands full with that one, though.’
‘Yup. Do you think he’ll pay the money he owes?’ Refilwe asks as she places a steaming cup of tea on Bonang’s desk.
‘He never has before, so I don’t see why he would start now.’
‘But if he loses the Homestead, where will we go?’
‘I don’t know. Can’t you hurry up and find us a millionaire on that Tinder site already?’
‘So far it’s only been a stream of one-naires and nonsense-aires. I think that Tinder thing is a trash can and everyone is digging in it, trying to find something good to eat. Did I tell you about the last one, that khehla who lied about his age?’
‘Yes, but to be fair, you weren’t entirely honest about yours either.’
‘N
o, but I’m a woman, that’s expected.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about Muza and the Homestead, I’m sure he has some scheme or other up his sleeve,’ Bonang says.
‘He always does,’ Refilwe agrees, as Muza sweeps into the study, followed by a tall man with a beard.
‘My wives, today is a day of many visitors. I’d like to introduce you to Elijah. Elijah, these are my wives, Bonang and Refilwe.’
‘Shalom,’ Elijah says, dipping in a small bow.
‘Elijah will be spending a lot of time with me at the Homestead,’ Muza declares.
Elijah’s phone lights up and he excuses himself to take the call.
‘Who is he?’ Bonang asks.
‘He is Elijah, I just told you,’ Muza snaps, rubbing his backside.
‘Yes, I’m not deaf. But what’s he doing here?’
‘Elijah is my new business partner,’ Muza announces.
‘Can he sew?’ Bonang asks.
‘Maybe you are deaf. Did you not hear what I just said? Elijah is my business partner; he is not your business partner. And we are very busy men, we don’t have time for your women’s work.’
‘Listen la, this “women’s work” is all that’s keeping food on the table and tea in your cup right now, so I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss it.’
‘That may be true right now this minute, and I am grateful of course, Bonang, but I am embarking on a path to great wealth and power. And it won’t take forever, either. I should start raking in the cash very soon, if everything goes according to my master plan.’
‘This master plan, Muzzy, is this how you intend to pay the money for the Homestead?’ Refilwe asks.
‘Yes, it is. Now listen, Elijah is a very influential man, so I want you to be very nice to him when you see him. We’ll be working together here day and night. You see, what I’ve learnt in business is that there is no timeline for inspiration. It strikes when it’s ready, like a snake, and we want to be ready to catch it when it does.’
‘If you are going to be catching snakes, you should be careful,’ Bonang says, smoothing out the fabric in her lap.
‘Sorry ladies, I had to take that; business, you know,’ Elijah says, stepping back into the office.
‘We are going out now, we are very busy men with a lot of important things to do,’ Muza says.
‘Yebo, sthandwa sam’, so you said. We’ll be here when you get back,’ Bonang says.
‘Maybe,’ Refilwe mutters under her breath.
THE WRITER
I feel marginally more human today. I strapped my sore pinkie tightly to the two adjacent fingers with strips of an old T-shirt, and that’s relieved some of the pain. And the swelling on my eye has mostly gone down, leaving a bruise that’s already turning from black to dark purple.
But unfortunately my other problems don’t look like they’re going away any time soon. That fucking deadline just keeps getting closer. I blinked, and suddenly I have only eighteen days to write an entire book. With very little new material to work with, and barely any internet to download old material. Winning, as Charlie Sheen would say.
I step through the broken door, out of the gloom of my rondavel and into the glaring sunlight. Instant headache. All I can see is a haze of yellow, but there’s nothing wrong with my ears. Somewhere off to the right I can hear that stupid dog growling. I blink, then step away from the snarling, shading my eyes from the sun with my hand. As I walk towards the house, the growl turns to barks that are now much too close for comfort. I dodge a squawking chicken, and then the dog has the hem of my jeans. A tooth sinks into my ankle. I let loose with a barrage of curses, kicking my leg to throw it off. The mutt loses its grip and lands yelping, as I break land-speed records towards the main building. Undaunted, it comes after me again. I make it through the battered front door and pull it closed behind me just in time, panting. If the front door wasn’t broken, I’d be street-special mincemeat. Security upgrade se voet.
I call out, as it doesn’t feel right to just let myself into the house, but it was either that or become dog fodder. Nobody answers, so I limp down the passage towards the sound of women’s voices. I tap on the door and push it open. One of Muza’s wives is at the desk operating a sewing machine, and the other is sitting at a laptop, busy with her phone.
‘Sorry to barge in like this, no need for alarm, it’s just me.’
‘Baba, uright? You don’t look so good,’ the wife at the laptop says, her eyes wide. ‘Have you been in an accident?’
‘I haven’t had the best luck,’ I admit.
‘You’re bleeding all over my fabric,’ says the wife at the sewing machine.
‘Sorry, Mama, sorry,’ I say, and jump away from it. She raises her eyebrows at me, then goes back to work, the machine making a comforting hum as her foot presses down on the pedal.
‘Is there something we can help you with, Mr Writer who is not having a lot of luck?’ the wife at the laptop asks.
‘Have you seen ex-President Muza anywhere? We’re supposed to be meeting to work on his memoir.’
‘He’s gone out,’ says the lawyer. ‘With the black Jew.’
‘His business partner,’ the seamstress adds, snickering into a piece of fabric.
‘Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me! Please don’t tell me Elijah is Muza’s new business partner?’
‘Seems so,’ Refilwe says.
A dog’s tooth in my ankle is no longer the worst thing that’s happened to me today. That means Elijah will be back soon. But maybe he’ll be distracted. And if they’re working together, I could ask Muza to get him to lay off me.
‘You’re bleeding on my fabric again,’ says the seamstress. ‘Here,’ she hands me a roll of one-ply toilet paper. ‘Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?’
I lift the hem of my jeans and find a small puncture wound. I tear off a few squares of loo paper and press it against the wound to staunch the flow of blood.
‘I don’t think your dog likes me. This is the second time he’s gone for me.’
‘He doesn’t like anyone,’ Bonang says.
‘Do you know how long Muza will be out?’ I say.
‘I don’t know, they’re very important men, with a lot of important things to do,’ seamstress wife says, eliciting more snickers from laptop wife.
‘Do you think I could wait here for him? We really need to get to work as soon as he gets back.’
‘Suit yourself, but I don’t think they’re going to be back for a while,’ says the lawyer.
‘Do you mind if I sit?’ I ask.
‘We don’t, but she might,’ Refilwe says, indicating one of the guest chairs occupied by a disdainful cat. I’ve had my share of vicious animals for the day, so I hover where I am.
‘Hey, maybe I could interview you both while we wait?’
‘I don’t know anything,’ Bonang says.
‘About what?’ I ask.
‘About anything,’ she says.
‘This isn’t about anything criminal. I just want to chat casually. We could talk about how you met Muza. What it’s like being one of the first ladies? Your life together. That kind of thing. Also maybe what’s it like being one of so many wives, did it ever bother you? We don’t even have to talk about your relationships with the other wives and ex-wives, if you don’t want to. I know that’s been contentious. But anything you could tell me would really help me get a bit of background. To be honest, I’m just trying to get to the real story behind the man, you know? Instead of writing the same old official story, like every else does,’ I say, putting imaginary quotation marks around the word ‘official’.
‘What’s his real story got to do with me?’ Bonang says, putting her own imaginary quotation marks around the word ‘real’.
‘Well, you know what they say: behind every great man is a woman. Or in this case, several.’
‘I’m sorry writer, I don’t know anything and I’m very busy,’ the seamstress snaps, and drops her head back down to her machine.
‘Mama…’ I begin, addressing the other wife.
‘My name is Refilwe, I’m not your mama, and I don’t know anything either,’ she says, before I’ve gotten any more words out.
I flinch. They must think I’m a typical white privilege type, and they wouldn’t be wrong either. ‘I’m not a lawyer or a policeman or the press, I swear, I’m not asking about any kind of criminal behavior.’
‘My English isn’t very good,’ Refilwe says.
‘It sounds pretty good to me. And those books on your shelf are in English.’
‘I have to be in court,’ Refilwe says.
‘On a weekend?’ I say.
‘Church. I have to go to church.’
‘Okay,’ I sigh, ‘maybe during the week, then?’
‘Maybe. But probably not.’
‘If you want to wait here and talk to us, writer, you’re going to have to make yourself useful. I could show you how to use this interlocker. It can’t hurt to learn a trade, in case this whole Muza-memory-writing thing doesn’t work out for you. Come, I’ll show you.’
Hours later I’m back in my rondavel, and I now know how to use an interlocker. And get cat hair off fabric. But I don’t have a single new fact about Muza, and he’s still not back yet. I pace, too much nervous energy to write.
My phone bleeps a bunch of times in a row.
Matty, it's me.
Your mother.
Why aren't you answering my calls?
I'm starting to worry.
Your father says I must tell you to answer my calls.
Are you depressed?
A woman in my book club has a daughter who is depressed. It's terribly sad.
Did you go to your high-school reunion yet? I want to hear all about it.
