Unpresidented

by Paige Nick

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  There’s that silence again.

  ‘If I’d known how it was going to play out, I wouldn’t have done it.’

  ‘Yup, unlucky for you that I beat the odds and survived.’

  ‘You probably don’t believe me, but I’m glad you’re still alive.’

  ‘So is my young daughter, Mr Stone.’

  I cringe.

  ‘You know what this whole thing has taught me?’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re all lucky to be alive. Don’t waste a second of it on anything or anyone unimportant. And never, ever, ever, believe anything you read.’

  The phone goes silent again, and this time I know the line is dead. He doesn’t want to waste another second of his life on someone unimportant, and I can’t blame him.

  1 DAY TILL DEADLINE

  THE WIVES

  ‘Take or leave?’ Bonang asks, holding up a stapler that has the stamp of the government of South Africa and the seal of Luthuli House embossed on it.

  ‘Keep,’ Refilwe says. ‘I have one already, but it can’t hurt to have a spare.’

  Bonang drops the stapler in the box she’s packing.

  ‘Take or leave?’ Refilwe asks, taking a watercolour off the wall and holding it up for Bonang to see.

  ‘Definitely take.’

  ‘When are you going to tell him we’re leaving?’ Refilwe asks.

  ‘Why do I have to tell him?’

  ‘Because I said “nicky-not-telling-him”.’

  ‘Maybe we don’t have to tell him. When he gets home from his meeting with the parole officer, it will be pretty obvious that we’re not here anymore,’ Bonang says.

  ‘Do you think he’ll mind us taking all this stuff?’ Refilwe asks.

  ‘Cha, think of it as alimony. Anyway, he’ll land on his feet, he always does,’ she says as they return to packing anything that isn’t bolted down.

  THE WRITER

  The dog is tied to a down-pipe at the side of the house with a piece of rope. He snarls at me as I walk past the fire pool to where the wives are overseeing a group of men loading furniture from the house into the back of a truck.

  ‘Don’t forget that pot plant by the door,’ Bonang instructs one of them.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ I ask.

  ‘My big order from Cottonworths finally came through, so I’m going to need more space. I’m even going to be able to hire staff.’

  ‘That’s really great news, congratulations,’ I say.

  ‘We’ve rented a flat together in Cape Town, and we’re going to share an office space, ShweShe Designs and Refilwe’s Law Services,’ Refilwe says proudly.

  ‘Cape Town?’

  ‘I need to be closer to parliament, it’s a fashion thing,’ Bonang says.

  Refilwe fishes a business card out of her handbag. The ShweShe Designs logo is printed on one side with Bonang’s phone number and Refilwe’s Law Services is printed on the other side, with her phone number.

  ‘Does Muza know?’

  Bonang shakes her head. ‘We have to go. What will happen when he can’t pay the money he owes the municipal people? They will kick us all out of here anyway. We will be homeless, or living in a landfill. It’s time we took care of ourselves,’ Refilwe says.

  ‘I’m going to miss you,’ I say.

  ‘Well, don’t forget to practice your hemming the way I showed you, Matthew, and who knows? Maybe one day there will be a place for you on my sewing team.’

  ‘We’d better go, we have a long drive, and Muza will be back soon,’ Refilwe says, placing a cat carrier with a ginger paw sticking out of it on the back seat.

  ‘Good luck with your book, and my best wishes to your mother,’ Bonang says, giving me a big hug.

  ‘Here, I found this, I think it’s yours,’ Refilwe says.

  I turn the dictaphone over in my hands – it’s the one I lost when I first got here. I fiddle with the buttons and the digital display shows that it has over nine hours of recordings on it, which is odd: it only had about twenty minutes on it when I lost it.

  ‘Where did you find this?’

  ‘In one of the kitchen drawers,’ says Refilwe as they climb into the car. Bonang accelerates, wheels spinning as she pulls off, leaving me standing in a plume of dust, clutching something that might just be something.

  I stand as far away from the mutt as possible and untie his rope, then race back to my rondavel with him on my heels. I chuck more polony out the door, hit the play button on the dictaphone, and hold my breath.

  THE PAROLE OFFICER

  ‘Where’s your writer friend today, Mr Muza? I’m not used to seeing you here alone,’ Vuyokazi says.

  ‘My large entourage, they are all waiting for me outside in the limousine. I have asked them to give us some privacy, as I was hoping to discuss a confidential matter with you, Mrs Ngcobo.’

  ‘You were?’ she says, surprised.

  ‘Indeed. Mrs Ngcobo, let me not waste any more of your time. I know you’re a busy woman. If say, hypothermically, I knew of a crime being committed tomorrow, and if I was to tell you about that crime, hypothermically, I was wondering what might be in it for me?’

  ‘Do you mean “hypothetically”?’

  ‘Yes, precisely, Mrs Ngcobo. Hypothetically, that’s what I said. You must listen more carefully. ’

  ‘Well, for one thing, you would be doing your civic duty, and you would have the joy of knowing that you were a good citizen, helping with the betterment of your fellow South Africans.’

  ‘Oh. So no real reward, then?’ Muza says.

  Vuyokazi breathes deeply, counts to ten and picks a piece of lint off her skirt. ‘Mr Muza, obviously you have something on your mind. Why don’t you come out with it? As your dedicated parole officer, I’m sure I can help you.’

  ‘Well, I thought maybe if I were to share this hypothetical information with you, hypothetically, it might contribute to say, the easing of the terms of my parole in some way, hypothetically speaking.’

  ‘Mr Muza, you do know it’s already quite remarkable that you’re out of prison so early on medical parole, don’t you? Not unprecedented, but no less remarkable. Plus, I can’t say I see you having too much trouble with your toe anymore. So say we were to look into the state of your toe and, hypothetically, we had to find that nothing was really wrong with it, well, let’s say I wouldn’t be able to find good reason to continue these conditions of your parole, which is based on a medical matter. Hypothetically speaking, of course.’

  Muza sits in silence for a moment. ‘Well, Mrs Ngcobo, let’s say I could offer information that might lead you to one of the biggest drug busts in the history of South Africa and the arrest of one of the most dangerous Malawian drug kingpins ever to walk our good land. I’m sure if you had to unearth a case like that, it would drastically improve your standing, and it might even lead to a promotion for someone like yourself? At least that’s what I would think would happen. Hypothetically.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you’re suggesting, Mr Muza. And I hope it’s nothing inappropriate.’

  ‘No, no, not at all. Of course not,’ Muza hastens to add. ‘You are a woman of exceptionally high moral fibre, more than All Bran even. That has become very clear to me. I wouldn’t dream of anything improper. What I’m suggesting is simply the exchange of some valuable information between two consenting adults, for some kind of protection, should things get, shall we say, intense.’

  Vuyokazi closes her eyes for a very long moment. ‘Alright Mr Muza, you’d better tell me what’s going on. All of it.’

  THE WRITER

  The dictaphone starts playing somewhere in the middle of the nine hours of recording.

  ‘…so after all this, I’ve come to understand that you only really come to know who your friends are the second you have nothing to offer them.’ My ears prick up: Muza’s voice is unmistakeable, I can practically hear his double chins wobbling. He then reels off a number of names of people he’
s discovered are no longer his friends, and my heart starts to gallop as he starts detailing the history of their dealings.

  I don’t have a lot of time: Muza will be home soon and there’s nine hours of this. As it plays, I shove my things into my suitcase as fast as I can, adrenaline spiking through my body. Once I’m packed, I toss the rest of the packet of polony out the door to keep the mutt busy, throw my things in my car, and tear out of the Homestead as fast as my Golf will take me.

  I fumble for my cell phone, keeping one eye on the road and one hand on the wheel as I scroll, almost driving head-on into a taxi hurtling towards me, but pulling my car out the way at the last minute. The taxi hoots at me wildly.

  ‘Hello, it’s Matthew Stone,’ I say, when the call is finally answered. ‘Listen, forget about the memories, I have a new book for you.’

  ‘The what?’ asks the man on the other end of the line.

  ‘I mean the memoirs, Muza’s memoirs, forget about them. I have something way better.’

  ‘Dumi told us that you were having some problems, Mr Stone. I was giving you until tomorrow to get the manuscript to us, as we agreed, before I got in touch myself to see what was really going on out there.’

  ‘He’s right, there’s no book.’

  ‘I am genuinely sorry to hear that, Mr Stone. But are you sure? Sometimes writers think they don’t have anything, but it’s because they’re too close to the project. Maybe I could take a look at what you’ve got, and provide some perspective on the matter.’

  ‘Trust me, there’s nothing in that book, it was all bullshit propaganda. I’ve got something way better for you now. Something that will change everything.’

  The publisher doesn’t speak for a moment.

  ‘We need to change tack,’ I gabble. ‘I’ve got recordings. Over nine hours of secret confessional stuff, straight from the horse’s mouth. Stuff he never thought anyone would hear. Seriously, this material is gold; you’re going to go bananas when you hear it. He names names and everything. You’ll make your money back a million times over. I’m talking legitimate international bestseller.’

  ‘Recordings?’

  ‘Yes, we could call it something like “Inside the mind of Jeremiah Muza: The Leaked Tapes”.’

  ‘Does Dumi know about this?’ the publisher asks.

  ‘Fuck Dumi,’ I say. ‘He’s not my agent anymore. This is between us.’

  ‘Right. And what do you want for it?’

  ‘First of all, that other book, the memoirs, it’s dead. And I can’t pay back the advance you gave me. It’s all gone.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I want a new deal. Double the last deal,’ I say.

  ‘What if Muza sues us for using the tapes? We can’t just take them.’

  ‘Muza can’t sue you. First of all, everything is recorded on my personal dictaphone, and secondly, you have him contracted to give you a book. He’s been paid half already, pay him the rest, and if he doesn’t let you use this material, you can sue him for breach of contract.’

  The publisher doesn’t say anything for a full thirty seconds. My hands are shaking so much, I have to concentrate on staying on the road.

  ‘Bring the recordings in and we’ll see what we’ve got,’ he says.

  ‘I’ll be there in seven hours, six if I don’t stop. Have your legal team and a contract ready when I get there.’

  THE EX-PRESIDENT

  ‘Wives, I’m home. That bloody writer almost crashed into the taxi I had to take home from my appointment with my parole officer. You ladies are lucky I’m still alive to tell the tale.’

  The house reverberates in a hollow silence. There isn’t even the distant buzz of the sewing machine, or chatter coming from his old office. Muza strides down the corridor, grinning as he recalls his conversation with Mrs Ngcobo. When he steps into the office, the room spins.

  The printer-fax-photostat machine, papers, pens and highlighters are all gone. And Bonang’s sewing machine and fabrics are also gone, and the patterns and pins and stupid hedgehog pin-holder and scissors and tape measures are gone too. Even the ex-wife mannequins and guest chairs are gone. He stands and stares, his mouth open. Every painting on the wall, every piece of furniture, all gone, gone, gone.

  Muza races into the lounge, to find that the couches are gone too. He swivels in the dusty square where they once stood. Then he runs screaming into the kitchen. Everything is gone. The kettle, the toaster, the fridge. He pulls open the drawer: the recording device is also gone. He pulls out every single drawer in the kitchen. All of them empty. He roars.

  ‘Where are you two? What did you do with my couches?’ he screams into his phone.

  ‘We’re on our way to Cape Town, baba, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Do you have the couches? Those are mine, they’re very valuable, you can’t just take them,’ he howls, strands of spit flying.

  ‘Please, a bunch of old torn leather couches, they can’t be worth more than a couple of hundred rand each, baba. We’d be lucky to find a buyer.’

  ‘Tell him it’s ours lawfully,’ Muza hears Refilwe shouting in the background.

  ‘And anyway, fifty per cent of the furniture is ours. So we left behind all the upstairs furniture for you. We only took everything from downstairs.’

  ‘Consider it alimony,’ Muza hears Refilwe shouting again.

  ‘I want my couches back,’ Muza shouts.

  ‘And I want my forties back,’ Refilwe yells.

  ‘I want my waistline back,’ Bonang adds.

  ‘As your husband and the ex- and future King of South Africa, I order you to bring back my couches and my recording device right this instant!’ Muza shouts, his voice cracking.

  ‘You can’t order us to do anything. In case you forgot, this is a free country, baba, despite your efforts,’ Bonang says before hanging up.

  When he calls back, her phone is switched off.

  SEVENTY-SEVEN DAYS AFTER DEADLINE

  Bonang’s business is flourishing. SheShwe Designs now employs forty women at its Cape Town and Joburg premises.

  Shortly after arriving in Cape Town, Bonang used funds she and Refilwe inherited from ‘an uncle in the furniture business’ to put down a deposit on a warehouse in Paarden Eiland.

  SheShwe Designs are not only sought-after items for appearances in South African parliament and on all local red carpets, but they will also grace the runways of New York Fashion Week later this year. And Bonang has been invited to be a guest judge on Project Runway, Season thirty-eight.

  Refilwe’s law firm is thriving. While managing a divorce for a wealthy client, she met and fell in love with his brother. They recently moved in together, and plan on marrying as soon as Refilwe has wrapped up her and Bonang’s divorces from Muza.

  ONE HUNDRED AND THREE DAYS AFTER DEADLINE

  Eileen Stone still lives on a secure estate in white suburban South Africa with her husband. She is still a racist.

  Not that she would ever admit it. After all, some of her best friends are black.

  ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN DAYS AFTER DEADLINE

  Vuyokazi Ngcobo has been promoted to the position of the new Public Protector for South Africa.

  She and Nelson are celebrating their seventh wedding anniversary this year. He plans on buying her a Mont Blanc pen to commemorate the day.

  ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SIX DAYS AFTER DEADLINE

  Elijah is currently serving his sentence while waiting to hear if his appeal is successful.

  He was arrested on a tip-off, when a cargo plane full of alleged plastic showerheads from China, attempted to land illegally at Waterval Airport.

  But instead of showerheads, police found a large shipment of cheap fluffy toys. On further inspection, they discovered heroin with a street value of over thirty-five million rand hidden inside the toys.

  In prison, Elijah heads up a Talmud study group. He also runs the kitchen and gives cooking lessons to other inmates as part of one of the warden’s rehabilitation programmes.
/>   The prisoners and guards have never eaten so well.

  As soon as he’s released, Elijah is planning a little holiday to Zimbabwe.

  ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVEN DAYS AFTER DEADLINE

  Last night Matthew Stone launched his bestseller at The Book Lounge in Cape Town. It’s called Inside the mind of Jeremiah Muza: The Leaked Tapes.

  Bonang and Refilwe were both there, resplendent in SheSwe Designs, of course.

  Reebok also attended. He is now represented by Dumi, and will be having his debut book launch at The Book Lounge, some time next year.

  Stone’s next project is a tell-all memoir about his time spent up close and personal with Jeremiah Muza. He received a massive advance from a prominent New York publisher, every cent of which he donated to cancer research.

  He has been clean for one hundred and forty-five days, and lives in Joburg with a dog he rescued from the Homestead, shortly before what was left of the derelict buildings were demolished and the site turned into a landfill.

  He named the dog Polony.

  TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-THREE DAYS AFTER DEADLINE

  Muza is now named Tariro, after making a deal with his parole officer and turning state’s witness against Elijah. He lives in Zimbabwe under the Witness Protection Programme.

  Tariro is single (not for lack of trying), and shares a flat with three of the men he works with at the local post office. He hopes to appear on Celebrity Apprentice as soon as Arnold Schwarzenegger returns his calls. Or if he would just check his emails, Tariro might join Tony Blair on the Dubai circuit as a motivational speaker.