Zoo City

by Lauren Beukes

  "I said Song is a funny one. On her own plak. She was up for this TV series, right? But it was all about the navy and they asked her if she could swim and she said, of course she could swim."

  "But she can't?"

  "She couldn't, past tense. She basically taught herself in a weekend. We went to the gym and she just sommer dived in to the deep end. Nearly drowned."

  "She get the part?"

  He shakes his head. "She lied about her age. They needed someone who was eighteen for the sex scenes, you know? I dunno how they didn't know she was fifteen. She's mal, that one."

  "You seem a little old to be hanging out with fifteen year-olds."

  "Ag man, Song was hanging out with me. I met her on the scene, she's always at the venues. Carfax, &Serif. She makes friends with the bouncers."

  "What's this I hear about her boyfriend?"

  "Which one? They come and go. She's too much of a butterfly for anyone to hang on to her." But I can see I've hit a nerve.

  "No one special?"

  "Well, there was Jabu. But he turned out to be a total dick."

  "Oh yeah?"

  "Dumped her via SMS. Can you believe that? I mean, she should have seen it coming. They met in rehab, for Pete's sake. She was sobbing on my couch for, like, hours. But you know Song – she got it out of her system, wiped her eyes and moved right on."

  "She dated anyone since?"

  "Hmmm. I know she kissed some drummer last week, with, um, Papercut. That screech metal band? You know that joke, right? What does a girl do with her asshole in the morning? Takes it to drum practice. Hey, can I hold it?" he blurts, reaching for Sloth. He's clearly been dying to ask.

  "He bites."

  "I'll be gentle, I promise. Please? Just for five minutes."

  "He comes with a disclaimer."

  "Ja, it's okay."

  I gingerly hand Sloth over, giving him a little squeeze to remind him to play nice. To my surprise, he clambers happily into Henry's arms and nuzzles into his neck.

  "Whoa! He's lank heavy!"

  "I know."

  "But really, really soft. Wow."

  "I know that too." I do not point out that Sloth is chewing the collar of his hideous shirt. "Think she might have done a runner with the drummer? Or maybe Jabu came back?"

  He shakes his head. "Nah, when Song moves on, she moves on. No way she would ever forgive Jabu or take his skanky rehab ass back. And the drummer was too lightweight for her."

  "Anyone else?"

  "Ag, that bouncer at Counter Rev has been hitting on her hard recently. They were always talking. And that dude must be at least thirty." He rolls his eyes at the thought of such decrepitude. "He didn't get anywhere, though. Song might be a slut, but she's not stupid."

  "He got a name?"

  "Uh. Major hot guy? Biceps the size of your head. I don't know if he just gyms a lot, or shoots up 'roids, or if he's just a freak of nature. You can't miss him."

  "When was the last time you saw her?"

  "About a week ago? She was at Informer. In Newtown?"

  "I'm a little confused. If she's into metal and punk, hanging out at rock venues, why is she in an Afropop band?"

  "Why are you writing a story for Credo? 'Cos it's a step up, right? Today it's Credo; tomorrow, like, Dazed and Confused or whatever your thing is."

  "Any idea why she's not answering her phone? She flaky like that?"

  "Not if she wants to talk to you. And she'd want to talk to you, believe me. She's hungry for coverage."

  "Part of the step up."

  "Yeah. Can you take this back, now?" he whines, shoving Sloth back at me. He's finally figured out that zoo doesn't mix with paisley.

  Back at the booth, Gio and Juliette have returned, and the girls have been replaced by a quartet of ski-masked youths with microphones. These can only be the Tsotsis. "Having a good time?" Gio says, his mouth right up against my ear because the Tsotsis are raucously loud – high-wire kasi hip hop acrobatically riffing off maskandi folk.

  "It's been educational," I shout back.

  "Wanna get out of here?" Gio breaks out his best mischief smile. "Seven and a half minutes to my place."

  "I'll take a ride back to Zoo City." I grin at his expression. "Don't worry. Your chances of being shot are only one in three." And then I'm blinded by a camera flash as Dave reappears and snaps a close-up.

  "Say paparazzi," he says.

  It turns into a group outing. The chance of a guided tour is too much for Dave to resist.

  "You been into Zoo City much?" I ask him.

  "Well, our offices are nearby. And I picked up Lily Nobomvu once about seven years ago, hitching from her crack dealer's place on Kotze Street," Dave says. "Covered in bruises. Her manager was beating her up. She seemed happy enough, though. Asked me to lend her a hundred bucks when I dropped her off in Parktown."

  "Odi Huron, by any chance?"

  "That's the one. Dodgy motherfucker, by all accounts." Dave leans forward between the seats to take photographs through the windshield, of the trees hung with plastic bags like Christmas decorations, the prostitutes outside Joubert Park posing under the streetlights (the working ones, anyway) like their own personal spotlights.

  "You know they never found her body? She could still be out there."

  "Lily? You mean like Elvis? I can see them cruising truckstop bars on Route 66, playing drinking games with grey aliens." Gio giggles. "Hey, didn't Odious have a bar? Remember, Zinz? Bass Station?"

  "I remember being too drunk to remember anything about Bass Station. Like I don't remember anything about

  206 or Alcatraz."

  "Oh, Bass Station closed down years and years ago," Dave says. "There was a robbery that went bad. Couple of people died, if I remember correctly. Maybe that's why it took Huron so long to make a comeback."

  "We should go to Counter Rev, sometime. You'd like it," Gio interrupts.

  "Sounds like hipster hell."

  "Alright, you'd find it interesting, then. Anthropological."

  "Turn left and pull over at the sign for His Believers," I say, indicating the billboard for the charismatic church.

  "This is the stuff you should be doing," says Dave, suddenly very animated. "Why are you writing about pop bands when you could write about Zoo City from the inside?"

  "But would people read it? Dogfight exposés and vice?"

  "What's a dogfight?" Gio pipes up.

  "Use your imagination."

  "I'm seeing glitz and blood, money on the table, fur in the ring, mobsters with glamour models on their arms watching from the sidelines."

  "Minus the glamour and glitz, add a heavy dose of illegal, and you've got it."

  "To the death?"

  "Not unless it gets really ugly. We do try to avoid the Undertow as much as possible."

  "Sounds like a good night out. Maybe we should do Counter Rev and then an evening at the dogfighting."

  "Or not."

  But Dave won't let up. "More like insight pieces. Scenes from the street, what it's like to live here."

  "It's kak, Dave. What more do you want to know?"

  "Just think about it."

  "So, can I walk you up?" Gio asks as we pull over.

  "You probably shouldn't leave your car alone in this neighbourhood."

  "It's cool, I'll stay," Dave volunteers.

  "You can walk me to security. Longer than that, and I can't speak for Dave's safety."

  There is a small group of men, teens really, sitting on the steps leading up to Aurum Place opposite. Spare time and beer make them dangerous. Candlelight flickers in the windows of the squatter blocks where the electricity has long since been disconnected. A thudding bass line ramps up from the chop-shop in the alley. Testing the sound system. In the distance, sirens, the occasional gunshot. Gio flinches, pretends he hasn't. We reach the security gate and I turn to say goodnight. Gio pouts.

  "I don't get to come up?"

  "Next time. Maybe."

  "It was good see
ing you."

  "Like old times." This is not necessarily a good thing.

  "So Counter Revolutionary? Saturday? Consider it research."

  "How about tomorrow?"

  "Done." He moves to kiss me. I pull my head back just enough to thwart the intention.

  "What are you doing, Giovanni?"

  "Uh-oh," he says. "Full Name Rebuke. That's serious stuff. You won't let me walk you up? You won't let me kiss you?"

  "We broke up. In bad circumstances."

  "Four years ago. Things change. People change. You have."

  "And you haven't. In the slightest."

  "One kiss," he says. "Quick, before I get raped and murdered by the evil zoos."

  "You just don't give up." I grab his button-up shirt and press my mouth against his. His lips are warm. Surprised, it takes him a millisecond to respond, and then we are kissing like starving people intent on devouring each other, familiar and new at once. Which is right when Sloth leans forward and bites his ear. Gio yelps, and the boys on the steps pause in their banter to look.

  "Jesus! Get it off! Fuck! Ow!"

  "Sloth!"

  Sloth lets go and hides his head behind my neck. Gio grabs at his bleeding ear and raises his fist, snarling. I angle my head so that any blow will hit me first. "You're lucky he's a herbivore," I say, calmly.

  "Lucky, fuck. That fucking thing nearly fucking bit my fucking ear off. " He touches his ear, which is only nipped, and examines the smear of blood on his fingertips.

  "I can tell you work with words."

  "Not now, Zinzi. Ow. Fuck. Do you think I need a

  tetanus shot? I'm going to have to go to the fucking ER."

  "You'll be fine. Thank you. I had a wonderful evening."

  "Yeah, great. No, okay, I mean it. Apart from Dr Hannibal Lecter on your back."

  "I'll see you tomorrow."

  As the car pulls away into the night, D'Nice separates from the group across the road and saunters over, swinging an empty lengolongola. His Vervet Monkey hugs his neck for balance.

  "What's a sweet darkie girl like you doing with an umlungu like him?" D'Nice says.

  "Maybe he's my long-lost husband," I snap.

  "Uh-huh," D'Nice says and there is something sharp and mean behind the drunk in his eyes.

  15.

  CREDO August 2010

  The Once and Future King?

  Moja Records' hitmaker has been in hiding for almost a decade. Evan Milton pinned him down for his first one-onone interview in forever to talk teen pop, new club culture and the second coming of Odi Huron.

  "I believe in second chances," Odysseus Huron says, sitting behind the mixing-desk in his analogue/digital studio, an airy bunker built into the koppie at the back of his house, which is the base of operations for Moja Records. Necessary, as the notoriously reclusive Huron hasn't set foot outside this rambling Westcliff property since 2001. He's not talking about himself, perhaps because he's already on his third or fourth go-around of chances. This is a man who has been dogged by controversy and tragedy through four decades of music-making, who has somehow managed to rise from the ashes again and again. He makes light of his past – and his recent return to prominence. "I don't think anyone walks through this industry unscathed," he muses. "The only thing you can really do is become better equipped."

  Every era has its reclusive musical genius; every genre has its behind-the-scenes starmaker trailed by hints of controversy. Brian Wilson disappeared for decades before returning with Pet Sounds; James Brown always surfed a little too close to the law; and let's just say the name of the Death Row Records rap empire wasn't entirely coincidental. Closer to home, Africa's world music stars have been accused of human trafcking, embezzlement and involve ment with blood diamonds, while the Nigerian government slapped Fela Kuti with a currency smuggling rap.

  Mzansi has Odysseus Huron, the multi-platinum selling producer behind No. 1 sellers like Lily Nobomvu, Detective Wolf and Moro, and the man who launched Yeoville's ill fated Bass Station nightclub – as close to a South African Shrine or CBGB as we've ever had. It used to be that Odi Huron made hits and created stars effortlessly. He's been part of South Africa's ever-evolving cultural fabric since the dark days of apartheid, right through the Rainbow Revolution and into the post-"Born Free" era. He's also the man who disappeared almost entirely from public view amidst rumours of ill health and depression after the Bass Station tragedy and Lily Nobomvu's death.

  He is not an easy man to meet with or speak to. In fact, there's almost nothing easy about Odi Huron. For starters, he had to consult with a sangoma for an auspicious date to do the interview. This was followed by a credentials check to rival a visa application. Three weeks later, Odi's bodyguard/dogsbody, James, ushers me into the house and hands me a bullet-pointed list of no-go zones. "He doesn't want to talk about it," James warns. "Come in, come in, what are you, a mugger lurking in the doorway?" Huron gestures me impatiently into the lounge. He has a jokey way of putting people down, keeping them in their place.

  Odi lives alone in this vast house. He orders his groceries online. Prospective artists email him their demos. For everything else, there's James.

  The house has seen better days. This is no Ahmet Erte gun palace of genteel music-mogul diplomacy, but then, the man who started America's mighty Atlantic Records didn't get drafted into smuggling guns across the borders of apartheid-era South Africa for struggle activists. Odi's past has been checkered to say the least.

  In the '80s, he was one of a handful of white producers (think Gabi le Roux and Robert Trunz) who were willing to take a risk on black artists at a time when the apartheid government frowned sternly on such "crossover" projects. Odi saw the musical potential of black artists – and their commercial possibilities. It would turn out to be a savvy career move.

  Inside, it's not all pop-rock'n'roll. Perched on the edge of a chair, holding her handbag and looking very out of place among the swinging '70s décor is a middle-aged lady. She stands up to greet me and introduces herself as Primrose Luthuli, fumbling to explain that she's the twins' legal guardian.

  The twins are the reason I'm here. S'busiso and Songweza Radebe, aka iJusi, aka Odi's latest flash of musical genius, aka the latest recipients of the platinum touch. They're also the "second chancers" he's talking about, the raw-talent pair who spurned his production and management offer to enter Starmakerz.

  "It's total trash, demeaning to real artists," Odi says of the show. And based on the increasingly embarrassing performances by winner Sholaine Pieters, he may have a point.

  Odi approached the twins again just before the semi-finals, and this time they inked a three-album deal. There's not a sentient soul in South Africa who hasn't heard "Spark" – the sound of a million ringtones, according to the download stats. Infectiously catchy music is one thing (earworm, anyone?), but star status requires more than that, and Odi's touch could be seen in marketing coups like licensing the track for the Chevy Spark ad cam paign. If the buzz is anything to go by, the new single, "Drive-by Love", looks set to propel them even higher.

  The teenyboppers in question are messing around in a swimming pool outside, painted a dark, depthless blue to retain the heat. S'bu is sitting on the side, his grey school pants rolled up, his black lace-up shoes next to him, bare feet dangling in the water. Songweza is thrashing around in neon green armbands. She's enthusiastic in the water rather than adept, dog-paddling over to her brother to splash the young heartthrob whose face smiles down from many teenage walls.

  The proverbial new leaf is one thing, but to see a man remade is another. Gone is the Odi who pioneered the dark, danger-thump club-swagger of Assegai or the brooding sexual undertones that powered Zakes Tsukudu's biggest hits. Now, it's all bright sunshine and two kids splashing around in a pool.

  "No, man, Sooo-ooong!" S'bu yelps at his effervescent twin.

  "Well, get in!" she teases. He lobs his school shoe at the voice behind the addictive chorus of "Sparks". She ducks. It plops into the
water and sinks without a trace.

  "Tsha!" Mrs Luthuli says, springing into action. "Who is going to pay for that?"

  "Who said you should never work with kids or animals?" Huron quips. "They obviously didn't have Prim on their side." He yells out the door, "You two, come say hello!"