The Satanic Mechanic

by Sally Andrew

  Maybe Slimkat was sending the kudu to me as a message, asking me to find his murderer? I know Bushmen have strong spirits, but I was not one for spiritual powers, myself. I didn’t even go to church any more. It was something I should discuss with the group, but hallucinating animals seemed like a silly problem, and I felt shy to share it.

  I drove under the arch, across the cattle grid and towards the panel-van laager that stood between the three thorn trees. I recognised the cars outside the laager – it looked like everyone was here before me. The kudu moved gracefully beside the bakkie and waited as I stopped and got out. It walked just ahead of me as I carried the pie and cream towards the circle of people sitting on plastic chairs. Ousies was adding spices from Fatima’s silver tin to a red teapot on the fire; she glanced up at the kudu and me. Tata Radebe, Dirk, Lemoni, Fatima and Ricus all said hello with nods or smiles. Ricus’s blue eyes sparkled in his furry face. His beard spread all the way down his neck.

  ‘I brought pumpkin pie,’ I said, giving it to Ousies. ‘It’s nice cold or warm.’ She laid it on a flat rock beside her.

  Close to the fire was a big metal dish covered in foil. I could smell it was the moussaka. Ousies was watching it as if it was a rabbit that she didn’t want to escape.

  ‘We can eat the pie with the moussaka,’ I said. ‘And if there are leftovers, we can have them with cream for pudding.’

  I sat down on the chair between Lemoni and Fatima.

  ‘Welcome, Tannie Maria,’ said Ricus, in that big warm voice of his. ‘We are just sitting for a while, connecting with ourselves and our senses . . .’ His furry hands rested on the blue pants of his mechanic’s uniform. ‘Be aware of your breathing.’

  My breathing was fast and bumpy. It calmed down after a while. I remembered that exercise Ricus had taught us last time, and allowed the rhythm of my in- and out-breaths to become more regular.

  ‘Be aware of the sounds and sights around you,’ said Ricus.

  Above me and around me was the huge empty blue sky. Ahead were the long curves of the low hills, and I could see the tall Swartberge to the north and the rounded Rooiberg to the south. Birds were singing nearby and sheep bleating in the distance. The thorns on the acacias were as white as dried bones. The branches made shadows that looked wet and dark on the ground. Fatima was wearing a long dress again, with a pattern of pinks and blues. Lemoni had closed her eyes and was breathing deeply. She was in black jeans and a white sleeveless vest that showed off her curves. She had on her gold watch and that leather bracelet with the blue eye beads.

  ‘Thoughts will come and go,’ said Ricus, his voice gentle, ‘but keep returning to your senses. Feel your breathing, your body on the chair, the sights, sounds and smells around you.’

  The kudu stood just outside the circle, looking at the fire. Ousies was still watching the moussaka like a hawk. Dirk wore brown shorts and a khaki top, and watched Lemoni; he seemed to be following the rise and fall of her breathing. I wondered where Johannes was. Perhaps working on the panel vans in the shed or looking after the snakes at the house. Tata Radebe was in his smart black pants, shiny shoes and a faded yellow T-shirt. ‘UDF’ was written on it in red, and there was a picture of people with their fists in the air.

  ‘When your mind races off,’ said Ricus, ‘gently bring your awareness back to your senses. To yourself, here and now.’ He nodded at Fatima, who got up and helped Ousies prepare the shaah tea.

  I felt the afternoon sun on my face and breathed in that sweet smell of dust and wild bushes. It was an unusual feeling for me, to just sit and gently be myself. It’s hard to describe, but it was as if I was coming home. I guess I’m always busy with something. Sometimes it felt like I was running away – from what, I am not sure. As I sat still like that, after a while, I caught up with myself. And it wasn’t so bad.

  Ousies stayed by the fire (and the moussaka) while Fatima handed out the cups of warm sweet tea.

  ‘Enjoy the feel of the tea cup in your hands,’ said Ricus. ‘Give your full attention to the taste of it in your mouth.’

  We drank our tea in silence, the sounds and sights of the Karoo veld all around us.

  Ricus collected our empty cups as he said, ‘Try to keep this feeling of connectedness throughout our session. Connect with yourself, connect with others. Connection and awareness are the first steps in healing.’

  He sat down again and stretched his legs and brown veldskoene out in front of him.

  ‘On Saturday we spoke about our intentions to heal.’ He reached his arms out towards us, then he brought his hands together in front of him. ‘Healing is difficult if we are fighting against ourselves.’ He knocked his fists against each other. ‘If we don’t believe we deserve peace. If we are punishing ourselves.’

  He looked at Dirk. Dirk’s hands were bunched on his lap, his knuckles pink.

  ‘So today,’ said Ricus, now holding his palms together as if in prayer, ‘we are going to focus on forgiveness. We need to face up to what we have done, and we need to forgive ourselves.’

  Fatima bent her head down and covered her eyes with her hands. Tata Radebe poked his walking stick into the ground, and Lemoni twisted the handles of her leather handbag.

  ‘Forgive yourself,’ said Ricus.

  My stomach began to churn. The kudu that was standing behind Ousies flashed its white tail and galloped off into the veld, towards the kloofs of the Swartberge.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  I wanted to get up and run away with the kudu, even though I am not the running type. But Ricus’s warm heavy voice kept me in my chair.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said, like he was patting me on the back.

  Everyone in the circle (except for Ricus and Ousies) looked like they wanted to bury themselves or go home. Ousies tore herself away from the moussaka and gave a napkin to Fatima, who was crying quietly, and to Dirk, who was sweating like he had a fire under him. Lemoni had knotted her fingers tight into her bag straps, and Tata’s knobkierie was poked deep into the sandy ground.

  ‘When bad things have been done to us,’ said Ricus, ‘we sometimes do bad things ourselves. We are only human. It is sometimes easier to forgive what was done to us, than what we ourselves have done . . .’

  Fatima was now sobbing, her face buried in her napkin. We all looked at her, held her gently in our gaze, until she calmed down. Ousies swept the sand behind Fatima, moving in a slow circle around us.

  ‘Does anyone want to tell us their story?’ said Ricus.

  Fatima shook her head violently.

  I looked out at the green and brown veld. There was a clunking sound from the shed and, between the panel vans, I saw a figure in an overall at the shed doors. Johannes. I heard a bark and some bleating, and spotted Mielie circling a small koppie to the west, where the sheep were camouflaged amongst the woolly bushes.

  Tata Radebe spoke: ‘You are right, Bhuti, the apartheid government, the policemen who did those bad things to me, it is not them that are hurting my heart. It is me; it is what I did. The pain, it sits with me every day.’ He patted his heart with the palm of his hand. ‘Even now.’

  He sighed and pulled his stick from the ground and tapped the sand off the end of it.

  ‘For three days, for three days, they did many things to me, and I told them nothing. I would rather die than tell them the names of my comrades. But then . . . Then they used that wet bag; they did it again and again. My mouth started saying the names. The names went from my throat to my tongue. I could not stop them.’

  He put his hand on his throat.

  ‘Most of the comrades got away. But one of them, the commander of our cell, they caught him. They killed him. They said he hanged himself, but they killed him.’

  Tata made a noise like a punctured tyre. ‘But it was not them who killed him; it was me.’

  He gazed into the fire, and we looked at him. Holding him, forgiving him.

  ‘Forgive yourself,’ said Ricus.

  Tata shook his head.

&n
bsp; ‘Survival is natural,’ said Ricus. ‘It is in our genes to fight to stay alive. Sometimes we just do what we have to; we do not make a choice.’

  Tata Radebe shook his head again. ‘My body is alive,’ he said, ‘but my umoya, my spirit, he is dying.’

  Fatima was nodding as he spoke, her damp napkin clutched in her fist.

  ‘Forgive yourself,’ said Ricus again. His voice was quiet, but it reached deep inside you.

  ‘Hayi,’ said Tata Radebe. No. ‘What I did was wrong. I should have given my life for my comrades. It was wrong.’

  ‘Maybe it was wrong. But to heal, you must forgive yourself. Understand that you did the best you could.’

  ‘It was not my best, Bhuti. I should have died for my commander, not killed him.’

  ‘I hear what you are saying.’ Ricus sat up in his chair and leant forward. ‘Sometimes it helps to find a way to make good. There were some years when I behaved badly. I was very . . . selfish. These group sessions allow me to give something to others. This helps me to forgive myself . . . Is there anything you feel you can do to make right your wrong?’

  Ousies, who was sweeping behind Tata, gave him a napkin, and Tata used it to wipe his forehead.

  ‘I send money to his widow when I can,’ Tata said. ‘She has two children.’ He sighed. ‘She does not know I told the police. There were rumours I was an impimpi, an informer, but my other comrades protected me. I did not get the necklace. I should have got that burning tyre around my neck. That would make it right.’

  Next to me, Fatima made noises as if she was struggling to breathe. She pressed her napkin against her mouth, and I rested my hand on her shoulder.

  ‘That would just be punishment,’ said Ricus. ‘Making more bad. What could you do that would make good?’

  Tata Radebe studied the smooth handle of his knobkierie. ‘I must give up my life to save another life, a good life.’

  ‘Then you would forgive yourself?’

  ‘Hayi. No. Maybe. I don’t know.’

  Fatima’s breathing calmed down, but I kept my hand there.

  ‘Okay, try imagining that you have done this thing,’ said Ricus. ‘Close your eyes. Pretend it has happened.’ Tata closed his eyes. ‘You have saved someone from death . . . You have given up your own life to save a good person . . . Now can you forgive yourself?’

  Tata sat quite still. Ousies paused her sweeping. There was a distant bark of the sheepdog. A rock kestrel swooped down from the sky, onto the veld. It flew off again with something in its beak: a mouse.

  Tata nodded and opened his eyes.

  ‘Ewe,’ he said. ‘Yes. If I do this thing, my umoya is free.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Ousies gave Tata Radebe another napkin, and he blew his nose. Then she carried on sweeping around us, until she got to the exit, where she flicked the broom up and out. As if troubles could be swept away, like dust.

  Under my hand, I felt Fatima’s shoulder shaking. She was bent over, her face half hidden by her headscarf. She cried in little gulps, as if there were words that were trying to get out, but she kept swallowing them.

  Finally some words escaped.

  ‘I ran from Somalia to South Africa,’ she said. ‘To escape the smell. Then in Cape Town they necklaced that shopkeeper. I ran away again. I came here.’ She sat up straight and reached a hand out to the pale-blue sky. ‘Where it is peaceful, and there is no fighting. But the smell, it is still in my nostrils.’ She touched her hand to her nose.

  Ousies brought Fatima another napkin. Fatima seemed to be holding her breath; her face was going red. Ousies went to the fire and lit a piece of frankincense. Then she picked up her broom and continued sweeping. As the line of sweet smoke found its way to us, Fatima took a deep breath and sobbed into her napkin.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘So sorry.’

  I patted her shoulder as she cried from inside her belly. ‘It’s okay,’ I said.

  ‘Waan ka xumahay,’ she said. ‘I am so sorry.’

  Then she closed her eyes and spoke softly, quickly, in her own language, as if she was talking to people inside her own mind – her family perhaps, or God. A few times she said, ‘Waan ka xumahay.’

  After a while, she opened her eyes and looked up at the dark folds of the Swartberge, and then around the circle of people. There was such sorrow in her face.

  ‘I am a coward,’ she said. ‘My family were burnt to death. I did not stay with my uncle to bury them.’ She held her napkin to her nose, like a mask. ‘I could not even go to look at them. I wanted to remember my father, my mother, my sisters as they used to be . . . Oh, the smell and the flies. I ran away.’

  She looked down at the blue patterns on her skirt. ‘I am grateful to my uncle. I am a sinner and a coward.’

  ‘It was a terrible thing for you to face,’ said Ricus.

  ‘I am a coward,’ she said again. ‘That is not the last time I ran away. I went to find work at the coast. The country was poor because of the fighting. It was only the pirates who were making money. They were not bad people. They were badaadinta badah, saviours of the sea. Fishermen protecting the seas from the fish-killers, the illegal trawlers, people throwing toxic waste in the water. Then they found ships that had big money on them. I worked with them, and I earned money. We did not kill people. One of the pirates and me, we found love. The other pirates were angry and chased us away. We went to my uncle in Mogadishu. He did not like my boyfriend, and he chased us out.’

  She twisted the napkin in her hands. The evening sun lit up her golden-brown face. Mielie was barking again.

  ‘We ran away to Cape Town,’ she continued. ‘We got married; we had a spaza shop; we were at peace. But the gangsters were jealous of us Somalians.’

  Her hands tore the twisted napkin in two.

  ‘The crowd was big and angry when they burnt that man. Even our friends did not know us. We did not try to save him. We ran away, came here. It is peaceful here, and our shop is doing well. I love my husband very much.’ She looked towards the low hills and the setting sun, squinting into the light. She closed her eyes. ‘But my heart is not at peace. I am a coward. And for this I cannot forgive myself.’

  She opened her eyes and looked at Ricus and said, ‘I cannot.’

  ‘Fatima,’ said Ricus, ‘if you heard this story that you have told us from another woman’s mouth. If she told you about her family killed, her countrymen killed, in such a cruel way. About a love that she wanted to keep. Would you understand why she ran away? Would you understand her fear?’

  Fatima looked at Ricus and swallowed.

  ‘It was not another woman,’ she said. ‘It was me.’

  Ricus said, ‘But if it was, would you feel compassion for her and forgive her?’

  Fatima sighed and looked down at the torn napkin in her hands. Then she nodded.

  ‘Shower your forgiveness on her. She has suffered enough. This woman is you.’

  Fatima took a deep breath. The red sun was melting behind the hills.

  ‘As you take in that breath, breathe love into your heart,’ said Ricus. ‘And as you breathe out, let forgiveness flow through you, right to your fingertips, your toes and nose.

  ‘Let’s all do this exercise together.’ He reached his arms out to the circle, then rested his hands on his belly. ‘Close your eyes and breathe in love. Let it fill your heart. And then as you breathe out, let forgiveness wash from your heart, through your whole body.’

  I closed my eyes and breathed in and out. Love. Forgiveness. Love. Forgiveness.

  I opened my eyes and peeped at Fatima next to me. She looked peaceful, as if love was flowing through her like a gentle stream. Ousies was arranging coals around the moussaka. The sky was cloudless and turquoise, with a smudge of red where the sun had sunk away.

  I closed my eyes again. The moussaka smelt good. In-breath: love . . . and moussaka. Out-breath: forgiveness.

  I could do the love breath, and almost believe it, but the forgiveness just didn�
��t feel true. My heart felt full of the secret I hadn’t shared. The thing I could not forgive. Maybe forgiveness can only happen when the confession has been made. But I was afraid. Once I had spoken, I could never put the words back inside.

  The pressure in my heart got stronger and stronger, and finally it pushed the words out of my mouth:

  ‘I killed my husband.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  There, I had said it. Everyone was looking at me. Dirk’s eyes were the widest. Tata Radebe was nodding as if he had known all along that I’d been a murderer. Lemoni had an expression that looked like sympathy; perhaps she had a bad husband too. Ricus was leaning forward in his chair, listening.

  No one said anything. Ousies poked the fire, then picked up her broom. The sheepdog was barking in the distance again, an excited kind of bark.

  ‘For years he hit me,’ I said. ‘I never fought back; he was much stronger than me.’

  Fatima clicked her tongue. But whether it was in sympathy or disapproval, I’m not sure; I didn’t look at her face.

  ‘When he wanted to . . . y’know.’ I said. ‘He just did. He’d . . . hurt me. For a long time I thought it was all my fault . . . Then later, when I wanted to leave, I didn’t know how. My mother, the church ladies, even the dominee all said I must stay . . . And Fanie said he’d kill me if I left. I believed him.’

  Ricus was looking at me, his eyes gentle.

  ‘I know what I did was wrong,’ I said, ‘but I thought it was the only way I could escape . . .’

  The dog’s barks were getting closer, so I had to raise my voice. Now that I’d started, I wanted to get the story off my chest. It had been sitting there, so heavy, for too long.

  ‘He was on top of me . . . doing . . . y’know. His face was all red . . . It was then . . . that it happened.’ There was the sound of galloping hooves and Ricus looked towards it, but I carried on talking. ‘Afterwards, I was trapped under his dead body. I managed to roll him off. But instead of feeling terrible that I’d killed a man, I just felt . . . free.’