I slide the chair back and stand to leave. I shouldn’t be here, this lady shouldn’t be nice to me. No one should be nice to a man like me.
“Sit op jou gat seun, ek het jou genooi om in my huis to eet, nou sit, drink jou koffie en eet. Ek weet jy sit daar met ’n skuilige haart, maar jy gaan sit seun.” Sit your ass down boy, I invited you into my home to eat, so sit drink your coffee and eat. I know you are sitting there with a guilty heart, but you will sit.
Her words are bitter when she glares at me. I could just walk away, but the manners my mother did teach me won’t allow it, and I feel like a little boy being reprimanded.
“Engela,” she yells, “kos is op die tafel. Kom eet julle twee.” Engela, food is on the table. Come eat you two.
The food is dished up onto three plates, and some egg is scooped into a small, blue, plastic bowl.
“Engela! Ek roep nie weer nie, jou kos word koud.” Engela! I am not calling again, your food is getting cold, she yells as a plate is slid in front of me.
It smells amazing. It smells like my youth, it smells of my guilty soul and things I don’t deserve.
“Eet Francis, ek wag in vir daai kind van myne nie.” Eat Francis, I am not waiting on that child of mine.
She sits down right beside me, closes her eyes, and says a silent prayer over the meal she just cooked. We start to eat our meal and I am nearly finished when Engela comes into the kitchen carrying the little boy, all clean and dressed. She puts him into his feeding chair at the opposite end of the table to me, and sits down.
The way she looks at me is the way I deserve to be seen. Engela hates me, she fears me, and wishes I would leave. Her son eats the eggs with the same gusto that I do. His sweet little smile is so precious, so innocent - everything I will never be again. I look at his big brown eyes and swallow the knowledge that he is destined for the same life as me. He is a child of circumstance.
“Hy is oulik.” He is cute, I say, as he smiles and looks into my eyes.
“Los hom net uit, Franky.” Just leave him alone, Franky, Engela snaps at me, and starts fussing over him, wiping his messy hands and face.
“I was just being nice, Engela. He is a baby, he’s cute. I am not going to hurt your child, or anyone else for that matter. Ek will net met my lewe aan gaan. Die verlede is net dit, die verlede. I just want to get on with my life. The past is just that, the past. I am not going to sit here and say I am this new man, a good man, but I am not who I was.” I stand and put my plate in the sink. “Dankie vir die kos, Tannie, dit was lekker, mar ek dink dis beter dat ek gaan. Thank you for the breakfast, Auntie, it was so good, but I think I should leave. Ek het twelf jaar vir my sonde betaal, Engela. Jy hoef my nie nou die straf nie. Tannie, los my eder net uit, ek wil nie in julle lewe met my donker seil op fok nie. I paid for my sins for twelve years, Engela. You don’t need to make me sit here and be punished again, just leave me be, I don’t want to bring my dark shadow into your home.”
I start to leave the kitchen, pushing my chair in as I pass by the table. The goodness of a meal was short lived.
“Francis, sit op jou fokken gat seun. En Engela, luister jy ook baie mooi vir Ma.” Francis sit on your fucking ass son. And Engela, listen very carefully to Ma.
The auntie is angry and orders me to take a seat. I shouldn’t fear an old woman. I am a man with a gun and a filthy past, but with respect I sit back down.
“I forgave you Francis, I let it go. You killed my son and your sins killed your Ma, my best friend. I promised her that I would take care of her children, and so help me fucking God I will. I can’t save your sister, but you my boy, I can help you even it is only with a meal. Engela, Francis is as of this moment a part of our family, so stop your shit. You have no room to judge him. Your son was fathered by a boy far worse than Francis, some piece of shit you dragged into our lives. A murderer, a gang assassin. So shut up.” Now standing, yelling at the two of us, she says, “Ek gaan rook terwyl julle twee praat.” I’m going to smoke a cigarette while you two talk to each other .
She leaves us sitting in silence, in the kitchen that feels even smaller than it is.
“Ek het Eiran gesien.” I saw Eiran, she says, once her mother is gone. “Ek het gedog hy’s dood.” I thought he was dead.
“You should know better, and mind your own business Engela.” I shake my head at her.
“My kind se Pa is nie ’n agt nie, hy is sewe. Ek is bang jy bring die agt’s hier en ’n oorlog begin. My son’s father isn’t an eight, he is a seven. I’m scared you’ll bring eights here and start a war. Hierdie straat is ’n sewe straat, Francis. This street is a seven street, it’s their turf Francis. Dinge is nie die selfde nie. Ma en ek het nerens anders om te gaan nie. Things are not the same. Ma and me don’t have anywhere to escape to.”
I see her fear as she looks at her son. The next generation of this war sits in that feeding chair with egg smeared on his cheeks.
“I am out, Engela. I am working with Eiran. I am not a gangster anymore. Ek bring nie oorlog nie, ek soek te vrede.” I’m not bringing a war, I’m looking for peace.”
She shakes her head and sneers at me. “Niemand is ooit uit nie, Franky. Dink jy Eiran is uit? No one is out, Franky. You think Eiran is out? Hier is nie vriende in die straate nie. There are no friends on these streets.” She laughs at me as she picks up the baby. “Bye Francis, I think you and I both know you are not going to be around long anyways.”
“What does that mean, Engela?” I hiss at her.
“Hulle gaan altyd terug, niemand is ooit rerig vry hier nie.” They always go back inside, no one is ever really free here.
It’s the truth.
“I am never going back to jail, Engela. So get fucking used to me.”
I leave; the emotions inside me are just too much. I am never not going to be the man that killed Dan. I am never not going to be a rapist or a criminal. I am never going to be good enough to stay in their lives.
She is right. I almost wish I was back inside the walls of that prison. I have no idea how to deal with people and emotions, there is no structure, no routine, and I am lost.
Where do lost sheep go?
My Ma went to church, and I walk towards the building that housed her God. I am not sure I believe in God. I don’t know if he believes in me either, so the feeling is mutual.
The church isn’t in this building any longer, and the burned down roof and boarded up doors and windows are hidden below layers of graffiti, cursing God for the state of the world we live in. I can relate to their messages, but I also need to find something I have lost.
I am looking for myself in this place.
I should have started somewhere else.
Sitting on the front steps of the building that no longer houses the Lord, I pray to myself.
God, help me to stay out here. I don’t want to go back in there. I want this freedom, but I have no idea what to do with it. I want to be worthy of Auntie’s forgiveness. I need help. So much help.
The phone that Eiran gave me starts to vibrate in my pocket, and I am reminded that I have no place in a churchyard, even if it isn’t really a church. I walk through the gate and take the call. We are working tonight again.
On my walk home there is group of young boys on the pavement opposite me. They are not on my side, they are a different number and I can see the whispers and pointed fingers. One of them drags his finger across his neck, a silent threat telling me I am on their block and they are watching me.
It’s little wonder no one from my own number has come for me, there would be consequences.
I am going to have to go to them at some point in time, but not today. I have all this time to kill and I have no clue what to do with so much freedom, its frightening. So I return home and carry on with the cleaning and stripping of the inside of the house. I plan to make it habitable enough that I have a home.
After tinkering around and throwing a pile of filthy, unwanted stuff, out on the pavement to hopefully be stolen - or collected
- I decide to face the city council offices to get the power turned back on. Another dark night and cold shower could be avoided.
The dilapidated offices are busy and I spend hours in lines, being sent from one counter to the next, but by the time I leave I am assured the lights will be turned on.
They didn’t say when, but it will get done. I have no faith in any government run institution, and won’t be holding my breath for them to do it any time soon. I think that this project might be stupid, I should just go rent a place in a better neighborhood. Away from this place and my past.
I just can’t seem to let it go though, to walk away from it all. I am connected to it. This place is in my blood and I will always, in some way, be a part of this world. Where people and drugs are the currency, and when those run out, a life will do. I am torn between the dreams of a life without this all hanging onto me and the reality of this being my home.
There is an invisible bond I have with the place.
When I eventually get home, after siting in a taxi - and a bus for ages, my sister has returned with some guys. They aren’t good guys. They are not 28’s and in my home they are a threat to me.
I am faced with a choice, to go inside and possibly die, or abandon my own home and walk away.
Walk away Francis.
“Francis.” A voice calls from behind my back and I turn around, standing on the top step of my home. I see Engela in her front yard as she is about to leave for work.
“Walk me to the bus stop, please?” she asks, as if she knows what I am facing right then.
I jump the three steps down and cross to her side of the street, and she starts to walk quickly so I just follow close behind her. She slows down so that we are next to one another.
“They plan to turn your house into a drug house, Francis. Turn the power back off and just leave. It’s not worth the fight with them. Die straat is nie joune nie. This street isn’t yours.” She tells me the bitter truth.
“How do you know this, Engela?” I ask.
“Niemand is ooit uit Francis, my kind behoort aan hulle. Sy Pa was nie ’n klein vis nie. No one is ever out, my son’s father is a big fish, my boy belongs to them already. Daar is ’n rede dat ek en Ma kan aan gaan. There is a reason no one bothers me and my Ma. Ek het my siel verkoop. I sold my soul. As long as Dan lives, they won’t touch us. The repercussions for them would be too much.”
I just nod, understanding what she says, but the fight in me doesn’t want to let my home go without someone dying.
“Hou op, Francis. Stop it, Francis. Ma cleaned the spare room for you this morning.” She turns to me, her eyes brimming with angry tears. “Frankie, just leave, please don’t start a fight. Just go away. If anything happens to us because of you, I will kill you myself.” She wipes her eyes and carries on. “If they know Ma is looking after you I will get hurt, she will get hurt. Jy is FIRM en ons straat is Sexy Boy’s, loop net asseblief. You are FIRM and this street is Sexy Boy’s turf, just leave please. Gaan find jou nommer vriende en los ons uit. Go find your own number and let us be. My Ma doesn’t know what she is doing.”
This girl knows too much for someone so young, and I stop walking. I just let her go on as I think about the things she says. If I stay here people are going to get hurt, doesn’t matter which side of the road I choose to stay on, hers or mine. I don’t live on this street anymore. I am not welcome and by being here I am going to hurt my sister and Engela’s family.
I walk back and sit on the pavement outside her house, and dial Eiran’s number.
“Can you fetch me early?”
“Not really. Why?”
“I just became homeless thanks to the Sexy Boys and my sister.”
“Francis, go catch a bus to anywhere. I will find you later. This can be fixed.”
He hangs up and I wonder exactly who my friend has become that he thinks this will just go away. I take his advice and jog to the bus stop. Engela is standing there waiting. I stand next to her. Why is she like this and my sister is a drugged up whore? She is clever, so clever.
“You made the right choice, Francis,” she says as we get on the bus.
I sit beside her. We don’t talk at all, and I get off near the Waterfront. I know I will be working in the city centre tonight, so I may as well wait close by.
Once again faced with the wide open space and freedom, I have no idea what to do with myself and get lost in the past, and the things that have brought me to this time. I should have died many times, yet I am still here.
I wait to hear from Eiran. I stare at the phone that I have no idea how to work properly. I watch the ships coming in and out of the harbor, and consider jumping on one and just going away. But the stench of fish puts me off that idea quickly.
It gets too late quickly and he hasn’t called me. I know we should have gone to work already. I call him for the hundredth time, but I just get a message saying ‘the number I have dialed does not exist’.
The sun is starting to go down, and I am tired and hungry as I walk back towards the bus station. I can’t really go home and just stand at the bus stop, staring at the passing traffic. The streetlight that I am leaning against turns on as the day disappears into darkness.
My phone rings and I answer it. There is no name on the screen and I don’t know anyone but Eiran who would call me, so I answer the call.
“Hello?”
“Francis, go home.”
It’s not Eiran, but I don’t get a chance to answer before the call ends.
I take the next bus back home. I have never been more afraid of going home as I am on this bus.
What have I done this time?
6
Engela
I hope the angels can see me dying down here
Ma phoned me halfway through my shift. I could hear the gunshots and screaming as she tried to speak to me. Panic set in as I raced out of the airport and tried to find a bus home. My baby is in the house and those shots sounded too close for comfort. I am going to kill Francis if this is because of him.
It takes too long to get home and Ma doesn’t answer my calls. I try every three seconds on the ride back. I don’t know what I am going to find when I get there, but I know it won’t be anything good. No good ever came from guns, but no good came from love either.
When I arrive home there are police cars and ambulances, even the fire department is here, all at Francis’s house. I try to reach my house but the police won’t let me pass.
“That’s my house, number forty, my son is there with my Ma. I need to make sure they are okay.” He is disinclined to help and tell me to stay where I am, when I catch the eye of Martin, an officer who was there when they arrested Nathaniel. He comes over and lifts the tape, letting me in.
“Did you know about this, Engela? Where have you been?”
“Did I know about what? I was working. I have a job, I’m not a nommer slet!” I’m not a number slut! I growl at him. “What is going on?”
“There was a police raid, one that no one knew about. It came from very high places. People died and there were arrests. They seized all their drugs and guns. Dit lyk nie goed dat jy nie hier was nie. Verstaan jy what ek sê?” It doesn’t look good that you weren’t here, do you understand what I mean?
I know exactly what he means, and start to walk towards my place.
“Waar is my kind en my Ma?” Where is my mother and my son? I ask him, trying to hold back my tears.
“Hulle is binne, Engela. Gaan maar, ek sal jou verklaring nou kom kry.” They are inside. Go, I will come get your statement in a bit.
I walk up to my front door. This isn’t a good thing. This is very bad thing. Dread sinks deep into my tired bones as I open the door and step inside. I didn’t see Francis, I only saw Sexy Boys.
I saw men and boys that I know are dead and in handcuffs. I saw the aftermath of a massacre.
This is my son’s future, what I have to look forward to for him. Not knowing when I will get the call to say he is dead
or in jail.
I am not prepared for what I see when I get inside. Ma is sitting on the small chair in our little lounge and a paramedic is bandaging her arm, there is blood staining her clothes and her skin is pale. On the sofa, in the arms of a murderer, is my child. I turn cold as I see his future holding him, already at a tender six months old.
My heart breaks and I can see him twenty years from now looking just like Francis. Dan’s little head rests against his chest, and his tearstained face rests on top of it as Francis clings tightly to my little boy. He is whispering to him, all I see is his lips moving.
I want to rip him away but am too afraid to go any closer. I stand frozen, hoping this is not all a result of my actions. I fought hard to make sure Nathaniel was nowhere near my son, but this isn’t what I envisioned when I did it. I didn’t fight hard enough and now someone worse has walked into my front door, and I am afraid again.
“Ma, are you okay?” I eventually manage to get words out of my mouth.
“I’m fine, I was trying to move Dan to the back room and a bullet came in the front window. It hit my arm, but not bad. I don’t even need a doctor,” she says, her voice quaking, and I see the unspoken message she knows that having him here is a dreadful idea. “Sorry Engela, ek is jammer kind.” I'm sorry, child.
“It’s not your fault, Ma,” I say, but my eyes are glaring right at him. “Is it, Francis?” I look back down into her frightened eyes. “But you are getting in this kind lady’s ambulance and going to see a doctor. I will stay with Dan.”
She starts to argue but I shake my head and give her a threatening glance. My mother is ushered out our door and I see the chaos outside is calming down; the crowd has dispersed a little. I shut the door and go back inside. “Give me my son and get the fuck out, Francis.” I try to stop the fear that trembles in my voice.
“The police told me to wait here, Engela. I can’t go against a police order. I just got out of jail.”
28 Boys Page 4
