‘Run, Siphiwe!’ my brother cried.
I looked at him without words. He screamed again, his voice hoarse, his eyes like fire.
‘Run!’
The crowd parted. People pushed at me. An elbow slammed me in the face. There was a three o’clock train to Johannesburg.
I have been running ever since.
We were almost at the shelter. Neither of us had spoken for several minutes. I imagined that a man like Adrian would be a harsh judge. He would not stand for cowardice. But, when he spoke, there was no contempt in his voice.
‘Your brother saved your life, Siphiwe. Tonight Robert saved mine. It’s a big thing, saving a man’s life.’
I looked at him. We’d stopped walking. He held a cigarette out to me. His hands were still shaking.
‘You survived, Siphiwe,’ Adrian said, now searching his pockets for his lighter. ‘You survived that day, this city. That is something to be proud of.’
Something to be proud of? I’d never thought of it that way.
Most of the rooms in the shelter had their lights off. Those were the rooms the younger children slept in. I knocked on the window of Msizi’s room and called his name. He appeared almost instantly, eyes large and scared, not wearing his pyjamas – he’d get in trouble for that.
‘Go call Grace,’ I said. ‘We’ll go round to the kitchen.’
Msizi gave one look at Adrian’s arm before he disappeared behind the curtain.
Grace made Adrian sit down at the table, where she cleaned the wound. She said it was just a scratch. She took a bandage from the first-aid box in the cupboard next to the sink.
‘Get the scissors, Siphiwe,’ she said. ‘Go to bed, Msizi.’
I cut the bandage open and handed it to Grace, who tied it around Adrian’s arm tightly. Msizi stood on tiptoes to see.
‘I said, go to bed, Msizi. Where are your ears?’
Msizi pointed to his earlobes, then he grasped what Grace was saying. He swung round and ran down the corridor. Grace clicked her tongue.
‘That boy . . .’
She used a safety pin to secure the bandage. Her hands moved with confidence, as if she had done this same thing many times before.
‘Thank you,’ Adrian said and once she was done he made a call on his phone.
Ten minutes later the Zulu knocked on the front door. Adrian shook my hand before he left. The Zulu watched me with his sharp eyes, but he said nothing. I had the feeling that it made no difference to him that I had helped Adrian. He didn’t trust me and I didn’t like him. He turned to Grace and greeted her politely in Zulu, calling her Mama, which was a sign of respect, and she told him to watch himself and to keep the white boy out of trouble. We sat down in the kitchen, Grace and I. I told her what had happened with the drunks.
‘Guns,’ she said. ‘That is the problem. Everyone has a gun in this city.’ She got up and put the kettle on and took some of her and Dr van der Sandt’s special coffee from the fridge. We drank the coffee black and I added sugar to mine. It was good coffee.
‘There was a war in Mozambique,’ Grace said. ‘Years ago, before you were born. It was a terrible war that lasted many years and killed many people. In the end peace came and the people took the guns and gave them to artists who made a tree out of them.’
‘A tree?’ I could not believe that.
‘It’s in London. Everyone in the world can go and see the tree they made out of AK-47s. One of the artists said that was the best way to deal with guns. Cut them in pieces so they cannot be used again. That’s what we should do here.’
‘People will not bring their guns to be cut to pieces,’ I said.
‘No, they won’t.’
We talked about ways to get rid of guns, and before long, Grace yawned. I didn’t want to go to bed yet. My heart was still beating fast, as if I was the one who’d been shot at. I didn’t want to go into my bedroom only to lie awake all night.
Outside the kitchen door the light went on. This light was activated by movement. It was not a good thing to see it go on at night. It meant there was someone outside. There was a knock on the window and Grace got such a fright that she knocked the mug over and spilled the last of her coffee on to the table.
‘Who is it?’ Grace called.
A man replied in Zulu and Grace went to unlock the door.
‘It is late,’ she said.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I want to speak to Siphiwe.’
It was the Zulu sergeant – Adrian’s friend.
‘Why?’ Grace asked.
‘Are you his mother?’
Grace drew in her breath the way she did when the children were cheeky with her. I expected her to tell the Zulu off. Instead she said, ‘Yes, for all the children here, I am their mother. I am all they have.’
‘Siphiwe is not a child any more,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to him about the man who stabbed Hope Mosweu. He must pay for what he did.’
‘If you arrest this man, Siphiwe will be the one to pay.’
‘I won’t arrest him. He will not know that you have told me.’
Grace stepped aside to let him in. The Zulu pulled a chair out and came to sit at the table. I felt his gaze on me.
‘What will you do then?’ Grace asked. ‘What is his name to you?’
‘One day I shall see that man in the street,’ he said. ‘Maybe not soon, maybe next year, but when I see him, I might stop and search him and I might find something on him like drugs, or a gun. And if we test the gun we might find that it had been used in a robbery or a murder and then he will go to prison. He would not know that I searched him because of what he did to Hope Mosweu.’
‘And if you don’t find a gun on him,’ I asked.
‘I will,’ he said and when his eyes met mine they were as hard as the Nigerian’s were that first day I saw him. I understood what he meant and I thought, not for the first time, that he was a dangerous man.
‘And if he tries to kill you?’ Just because he was a policeman didn’t mean he was safe. People like the Nigerian were not afraid of the police.
‘He can try,’ he said and he appeared to be amused, but it was hard to tell. He was not a man who showed what went on in his head. Not a man who would smile or laugh readily either.
‘It was a Nigerian,’ Grace told him.
His eyes lit up and when he turned to me I knew I did not have a choice. He’d make me tell him.
‘Which one?’ He leaned forward, his hands gripping the table’s edge.
‘He wears lots of oil in his hair,’ I said. ‘Whenever he comes near me, I can smell it, and he parts his hair like this, on the side.’ I drew a line with my finger over my head. ‘He wears fancy shoes and bright ties with cartoon pictures on. Every time I’ve seen him, he’s worn a tie like that.’
‘I know him,’ said the Zulu, releasing his grip on the table. His face had gone hard. ‘I know the man he works for too and one day I will get them both.’
‘You will not tell anyone that I told you?’ Fear had settled inside me and the coffee was burning my stomach.
‘No, I shall not go near him,’ the Zulu said. ‘I shall wait. I shall tell Adrian that he doesn’t have to worry about that woman any more. I’ll tell him to drop it. Why did he stab her?’
‘He’s looking for her son,’ I said. ‘I don’t know why.’
When he left, Grace went with him to the back door and they spoke softly in Zulu, too soft and too fast for me to keep up, although my Zulu was not bad. I was always amazed at Grace who seemed to be able to speak all the languages of this country as fluently as her own. She locked the door behind him and turned to me.
‘Don’t worry, Siphiwe,’ she said. ‘I know that man, he will do what he promised. He will not get you in trouble.’
‘So, he’s a good man?’
‘I did not say that,’ she said. ‘But he’s a man who keeps his word. He’s a good policeman. He will sort that Nigerian out.’
As usual I took my shoes off before I entere
d my room so as not to wake Mantu. I used the moonlight that sneaked through the gap in the curtains to undress. Lying down with my hands under my head, I stared into the dark, worried about what I’d told the Zulu, but when I finally fell asleep, I slept without dreaming about trains once. Instead I dreamt that I found Lucky Mosweu. I dreamt that I saved him from the Nigerian.
The best time to work in the garden was early morning, when the plants were wet with dew and the soil cool under the fingers. That Saturday morning I was up at six and as I worked, I wondered who would look after the garden when I was gone. I didn’t want to leave the shelter, but like the Zulu had said, I was not a child any more.
While I watered the carrot and small potato plants, I thought about the Zulu policeman who seemed to have his own way of policing and I wondered about Grace and how it was that she knew so much about so many people. I briefly thought about the Nigerians. They’d have forgotten all about me by now. There would be no more trouble. My thoughts went to Hope and her son, Lucky. I wished I could have warned him, but walking the streets searching for him was crazy – dangerous too – and now I had a job, there was no time. Grace would understand.
At eleven I went to the church shelter to see how the twins were. I was halfway down the street when Msizi came running after me.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Nowhere, go home.’
He looked ready to argue, but then Simon called him from the gate and he turned back.
At the church shelter an old man in blue overalls was mowing the lawn and right on the edge of the lawn, almost in the flower bed, stood the little boy with his gaze fixed on the lawnmower. He wore a white T-shirt, red shorts and black shoes with white socks. He was eating an apple.
‘Dumela,’ I greeted him over the fence.
‘Hello,’ he said, and came towards me.
‘Wena o kae?’
‘I am happy,’ he said. ‘My sister too. She is very happy.’
‘I am glad to hear that. Wena o mang? What is your name?’
‘Thabang,’ he said, and turned back to stare at the lawnmower again.
‘And your sister?’ I asked.
‘Mpho.’
‘Those are good names.’
He nodded.
‘My name is Siphiwe,’ I told him. I wanted him to know my name. Perhaps I was being vain, but I felt like I was a part of their lives now. They were part of mine.
‘There’s a woman who said we can come and live with her,’ the boy said. ‘Her house is in Benoni. She said we shall each have our own bed. She is a friend of Moruti.’
‘That’s good news,’ I said. ‘It’s very nice to live in a house.’ I hoped that this was a kind woman and that she would look after them well.
‘She bought us new clothes,’ he said. ‘My sister got three dresses. I got a soccer ball. She said I can play with it in the garden.’ He bit into the apple, then said, ‘Are you still looking for Lucky Mosweu?’
Only this morning I had decided to give up on finding Lucky.
‘Are you?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘He lives in a shack in that old graveyard in Braamfontein. Do you know the one I mean?’
‘I know it,’ I said. ‘Who told you that Lucky is there?’
He shrugged. ‘The street people know. They know everything.’
Until a few days ago this boy had lived on the streets. And he had survived. Him and his sister. Sharp eyes and ears. That would be the only way for a child to make it out there.
I knelt in front of him. ‘You will be OK now. Things will only get better.’
‘I know,’ he said. It looked as if he wanted to smile but did not know how. Even so, it was there, touching his eyes, the first rays of sunshine. Happiness.
13
THAT NIGHT PROGRESS lay awake. Lucille had told him about a dream she’d had and how dreams often foretold the future. She was so clever, Lucille. She had spoken of the significance of dreams. She believed the goat in her dream referred to herself, that she would be destroyed by Letswe’s madness.
‘It will not happen, Lucille.’ Progress had wanted to say he’d protect her, but knew he couldn’t do that. He could not stand against Letswe, but it would not happen because he did not believe the dream had anything to do with Lucille. He was convinced it referred to Letswe. He would be ripped apart – it was the price of greed. Not one ATM, but four, in a little more than two weeks, and now he was planning to hit a bank. It was not that Progress was scared, but sometimes it was good to keep your head down. He yawned and stretched his arms above his head. He must try to get some sleep. Whatever Letswe was planning for the next day, he would need a clear head.
‘I have been thinking about my name,’ Progress said to Lucille. They were at the Oriental Plaza, where Lucille wanted to shop for curtain fabric for the new salon she was opening. Letswe had insisted that she take someone with her for protection – the city was not safe for a woman by herself.
‘Your name?’ Lucille asked, fingering the rolls of fabric while the shop assistant hovered by her shoulder.
‘Yes, I don’t think it’s a good name.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It doesn’t sound right, that’s all.’ Sometimes she made him feel as if he was still a teenager, awkward and unsure of himself.
She smiled. ‘Progress is a very good name.’
‘No it’s not, people will laugh at me.’
‘So, you want to pick another name?’
‘Yes,’ he said quickly. ‘I have selected a few. Maybe you can help me choose the best one.’
‘I can try.’
‘Mervin, Damian, Kingston, Abu, Jackson.’ He raced through his list.
‘Abu? Sounds Nigerian to me. I like Jackson better. Jackson Zebele. Feel this, Progress. Luxurious.’ She lifted a sheet of fabric and rubbed it against her cheek.
He had never met a woman who could enchant with the smallest of gestures. He’d never met anyone like her before. Vibrant, beautiful and smart. Very smart. She did the books of her business herself, she had shown him. All she knew about bookkeeping she had taught herself.
‘You like Jackson?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Lucille said. ‘It’s a strong name, a no-nonsense name.’
‘Jackson Zebele,’ he said. ‘Yes, it’s good.’
‘Which one should I choose, burgundy or gold?’
‘Eh?’
‘The fabric, Progress. This one or the gold?’
‘I don’t know . . . I like the red one.’
‘I like the gold. Gold curtains.’
‘It will look cheap.’
‘You are a man, what do you know about curtains?’
‘You asked me.’
She laughed. ‘Progress, you are good.’ She dropped the gold fabric and lifted the rich burgundy colour. ‘I think you are right. This is my colour. Five metres,’ she told the shop assistant. ‘Come, Progress, we can go and have tea at Bruma.’
‘Tea?’
‘Yes, tea and cake.’
She made for the door and he followed, carrying the bags of fabric. ‘I don’t drink tea,’ he said. ‘You know what Joseph will say if he hears I drank tea. He’s already mocking me because . . .’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t drink like them. And he saw me reading a book.’
She stopped and stared at him, hands on hips. ‘Joseph is a fool. He was born a fool. Don’t pay any attention to him, Progress.’
‘You must call me Jackson from now on, OK, Lucille?’
‘No,’ she said, and winked. ‘You will always be Progress to me.’
‘Have you finished your book?’ Lucille asked. She had ordered them tea and chocolate cake. It was very sweet, the cake, too sweet, but he said nothing and washed the cake down with bitter tea.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Any good?’
‘Yes, it is an excellent book. It’s about a man who became a millionaire, but he had many problems before he m
ade a success of his life. He had to work hard and not give up. He had to fight his way to the top. It’s a true story.’
‘Not a love story?’
‘No. Who reads love stories?’
‘Eh, you are cheeky,’ she said, but laughed again. ‘I like love stories, ones with happy endings. That’s what I like to read.’
His heart was beating so hard he thought she would hear it. Her foot had just brushed against his leg. His whole body went hot. Next time Letswe told him to go with her, he would say no, he couldn’t go. He swallowed hard. Lucille’s gaze rested on him. He felt as if she could read his mind.
Lucille had finished her cake. ‘I need the ladies’ room,’ she said. ‘It is on the top floor.’
They took the lift up. But for the old woman mopping the floor further down the corridor, there was no one around.
‘Come with me, Progress,’ Lucille said.
‘Into the Ladies? I don’t think so.’
‘Eh,’ she said, ‘you must protect me. What will you say to McCarthy if there is a tsotsi waiting in there for me?’
‘I shall say nothing. I shall run away.’
‘You are very brave.’ She grabbed his arm and pulled him into the ladies’ room after her; she did not let go of him either but dragged him into the cubicle where she slammed the door behind his back.
You are a dead man, he said to himself. But he didn’t stop her when she unzipped his trousers. A dead man. She kissed him and her tongue touched his and all thoughts of death left his head in an instant. He’d never felt so alive.
They were driving down Commissioner Street, the traffic moving along like an old man. Letswe had just put his phone back in his pocket. ‘That woman knows how to piss me off,’ he said. ‘Why’s she not answering her phone?’
‘She’ll be OK, boss,’ said Thabo.
‘You trust that boy?’ William asked.
‘He’s good,’ Letswe said, ‘and he wants to impress me.’
‘I don’t like him,’ William said. ‘I don’t trust him.’
‘Do you like Joseph and Thabo?’
William scowled at the two men in the rear-view mirror. ‘Don’t drop those fucking peanut shells in the car, Joseph. Why you always have to make a mess, eh?’
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