We shook hands and he went down on one knee and shook Msizi’s hand as well, then he gave him a soft punch on the shoulder. ‘Listen to your brother now, eh? Be good.’ He reached inside the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a few crumpled notes. ‘Siphiwe, give this to my mother, OK? Tell her not to worry. Tell her I’m OK and I’m going to sort out the problems with the Nigerian.’
Fifty rand. So, he did have money after all. He must have, to buy all that beer and Coke. I didn’t have beer and Coke under my bed, and I had a job.
We walked through the cemetery, Msizi and I, down the lanes where the trees stood guard, across the lawn where two men who were supposed to mow the grass sat under a tree talking to each other. It was too hot for work. Summer had finally arrived. On the path amid the stones at my feet, shattered glass caught the sun and sparkled like stars.
‘Hold your breath,’ I told Msizi, who still had hiccups.
‘I like him,’ Msizi said. ‘Lucky,’ he added, as if I didn’t know who he was talking about. ‘He’s funny. Did you see his muscles? He’s very strong. Did you see his shoes? I want shoes like that.’
I had noticed that Lucky wore expensive running shoes. They might be fakes. You could buy fakes cheaply in any of the city’s markets. They had the brand name and everything looked real, but they were Made in China. But that leather jacket was not a fake. I knew what leather smelled like.
‘Let’s drink some water over there,’ I said. ‘If you drink water upside down the hiccups will stop.’
‘I will drown,’ he said.
‘No you won’t. I shall show you how to do it. Grace taught me. It works for hiccups.’
We stopped at the water fountain with its black-and-white tiles. In the trees a flock of mynahs were screeching at each other. They could not just sing like other birds, they had to make noise. They were not indigenous to South Africa, these mynahs, they came from another country and were now taking over, squawking and showing off their shiny wings.
We walked for almost an hour with Msizi talking constantly and me thinking about Lucky and our conversation in the shack. Lucky reminded me a little of Sibusiso. My brother too was quick to smile and tell a joke. My brother would have liked to wear a shiny watch and a new leather jacket.
‘You are not listening to me,’ Msizi said. ‘Where are we going? This is not the way to the shelter.’
‘We are going to speak to Lucky’s mother.’
‘What were you thinking about while I was talking?’ he asked.
‘I was thinking about names,’ I said, not telling him the truth. ‘Names are important, Msizi. It says a lot about who you are. We must remember that we are Africans. South Africans.’ I added that to make sure he understood we were not like the Nigerians and the others. We had many different people, different tribes, but this was our country.
‘Do you know what my name means?’ he asked.
He had not heard a word I said about us and our roots in this country, but I was glad that I was able to answer his question. Grace had told me. ‘It means helper.’
He screwed up his face, considering it, then he snorted, unimpressed. ‘What does your name mean, Siphiwe?’
I sighed. It was impossible to have peace with Msizi near. ‘To be given,’ I said. ‘Siphiwe, in Sesotho, means to be given.’
‘What have you been given?’
I rubbed his head. ‘A brain,’ I said. ‘Unlike you. Why did you throw that stone at Vusi the other day? Eh? Why did you not listen when I said go home?’
Later I would think about it again: what it was that had been given to me. I could not tell and at that moment it didn’t matter, because as we approached Loveday Street, I noticed a man standing on the corner, leaning against a street sign. He was one of the men who had stood behind the Nigerian that day he had grabbed me on the street. A short man whose hair was bleached white like a rock star’s. He talked on his phone, but his eyes were on the street, on the place where the women were selling their wares, where Hope’s mango stall was.
I pulled Msizi back. We waited. The man didn’t move. He was watching Hope. That was a bad sign. The Nigerian had not forgotten about Lucky, and if the rock-star man saw me with Hope, there would be trouble. He’d tell the Nigerian about it. I knelt in front of Msizi, my gaze still fixed on the man with the bleached hair.
‘Msizi, you must do something for me.’
He blinked.
‘Do you see the woman who sells the mangoes? Her name is Hope Mosweu. She is Lucky’s mother.’
He nodded.
I took a five-rand coin from my pocket. ‘You must go over to her and buy a mango. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Then, while you buy the mango, you must give her this money and tell her it is from Lucky and that he’s safe and that she must be careful because the Nigerian is watching her. He’s waiting for Lucky to show up. Can you do that?’
He nodded. ‘Where is the Nigerian?’
I pointed at the man with the bleached hair. ‘He works for him. He will tell the Nigerian if I go near her. Be careful. No one must hear what you say to her.’
He took the fifty rand and held the notes in his left fist and the coin in his right, and before I could think about it again, he hurried off. He crossed the road at the traffic light, waiting with everyone until the green light flashed for pedestrians to cross. He ran towards the stalls, not towards Hope’s mango stall, but straight to the woman who was selling sweets. My heart kicked inside my chest. I moved closer, careful to keep people between me and the man watching Hope.
Msizi stood on his toes next to the woman and her bags of sweets, pointing and talking. I had to stop myself from running over there and grabbing his ear. I could imagine him asking the woman how many sweets he could get for fifty-five rand. The woman behind the sweets waved him away with both hands. Msizi ran to the next stall, looked at the display and moved on to the next. Hope’s mangoes. I had been holding my breath and now I sucked in air so fast that I felt dizzy. He was clever, that boy.
The Nigerian’s man was still on his phone. He would not think anything of a little boy buying a mango. If he had been watching, he would have seen him at the sweets, being chased off by the woman. He would not think it strange that a boy who had not enough money for sweets would now buy a mango.
‘What did she say?’ I asked when Msizi reached me. He played with the mango, tossing it up in the air and catching it with both hands.
‘She was very happy to hear about Lucky and about the money. She was not happy about the man watching her.’ He handed me the mango. ‘You thought I was going to buy sweets, didn’t you?’ He grinned, showing me his large front teeth.
I grabbed hold of him and poked him in the ribs with my fingers. He was very ticklish, Msizi. He laughed and tried to pull away from me. I was relieved that I didn’t have to give him an answer.
‘Do you want an ice cream?’ I asked him.
I bought both of us an ice cream with strawberry filling as we walked back to the shelter. It was a good thing I had a job. Before I could not buy anything for anyone.
That night I asked Grace if there was a man named Gideon in the Bible. She said there was. Was he a great warrior? Yes. Was he a hero?
‘You should ask Moruti on Sunday. Ask him where you can read about Gideon.’
I went to bed thinking that it was ironic, Lucky’s talk of heroes. In that cemetery many lay buried: Enoch Sontonga – a national hero – all those soldiers, the miners who had fought for what they believed in. And there Lucky Mosweu was hiding behind the graves of heroes.
15
A RANDOM EVENT can sometimes have far-reaching consequences. An accidental meeting in the street, a casual conversation overheard, an innocent comment to a friend, all had the potential to change a person’s life. I only discovered that later. That Saturday morning I helped Grace in the house, fixing a tap. I had told her about Lucky, that I’d found him and warned him, and that Hope was recovering well.
After wa
tering the garden, I went to see Lucky to tell him that his mother was being watched by the Nigerians. He became very angry at the Nigerians, saying he’d kill them. I told him not to be stupid. He asked that I buy him some food because his girlfriend, who was supposed to shop for him, hadn’t shown up the previous night.
So I went to the market. On the way, I was surprised to see the sky filled with small white butterflies. It was as if someone had opened a door of a cage and let them out. Thousands of white butterflies heading north. As I wandered through the streets, I noticed other people were looking at the sky as well.
When I reached the market, I stopped looking at the butterflies and concentrated on the crowd. That was when I saw him and I spotted him early because I was alert and on the lookout for the Nigerian.
The way he walked reminded me of those big black dogs that some people kept to guard their houses, those dogs that did not bother to bark, because they did not care to warn you, they just wanted to rip you apart. He moved through the crowd without looking left or right. People rushed out of his way. Strong men backed off when they saw him. By his side was a large, bald man with gold chains around his neck. Three other men followed close behind him. The violence he carried within him made him stand out in the crowd, and the suit jacket and tie could not hide it. It made people notice him, but they stared at his back, careful not to attract his attention.
I stared too, because I knew this man. I knew him well. He was a tsotsi and he was the devil. Years ago, my brother and I had done some odd jobs for him. I was lookout. McCarthy Letswe was a big name in Soweto those days and he paid everyone who worked for him well. Even the lookouts. Today Letswe was a big man among the tsotsis, his name carried weight in many places. He was into dealing guns, hijacking cars, robbing banks. Some said that he was worse than the Nigerians, because a lot of people believed the Nigerians to cause less trouble. They minded their own business – that was the drug business – and as long as you stayed out of their way, there was no trouble. It wasn’t true. They had their fingers in everything.
Letswe was a bad man and today, on this summer’s day with the white butterflies in the sky, he crossed the road and came straight at me. I backed into the wall. It was too late to run and running would not help me with this man. He wouldn’t like it and he would shoot me in the back.
‘I know you,’ he said.
I swallowed hard. ‘My cousin used to work for you in Soweto. I look like him, but he is older than me.’ I was surprised that I had a voice. My mouth was dry with fear.
‘Your cousin’s name?’
‘Raymond Modise, sir.’ That was the way to address this man – the way not to get shot. Show him respect.
‘Modise,’ he said. ‘Is he in prison?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I think he’s in jail,’ he said. ‘He’s a good man, your cousin. I always have work for men like him.’
No one in our family ever thought good of my cousin. He was a fool – my mother used to warn us against playing with him – but I nodded, and when Letswe asked my name, I gave it.
‘See, I never forget a face. Never.’ He looked me over. ‘Siphiwe Modise. Yes, I remember you now. How is your brother?’
I dropped my gaze. ‘He was killed.’
He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘Are you looking for a job?
‘I already have a job, sir. I work at a charity.’
He started laughing and the men behind him joined in. ‘At a charity? Is that work for a man? Siphiwe, if you need anything, you come to me. Eh? Once my man, always my man.’
I was in big trouble. It was true what they said about this man. He never forgets. He looked me over again, then he slapped me on the side of the head with his open hand, not hard, the way I would slap Msizi to tease him.
‘You take care, Siphiwe Modise,’ he said. ‘You take care.’
You didn’t notice much about McCarthy Letswe. Afterwards I could not tell if he was tall or short, thin or fat. I didn’t notice his shoes. All that stayed with me were his eyes, which were small like a pig’s, and the scar that cut across his forehead and ran into his cheek. They say that he got that scar in a fight, when a man sliced him open with a broken bottle. They say they only ever found one of the man’s arms and one of his legs, the rest of him, they say, Letswe fed to his dogs.
I knew that must have been true, because when I was twelve my brother and I had watched as Letswe had dragged a man through the street. The man was already half dead, but Letswe had dragged him in behind some shacks and whistled several times and his men let loose the dogs on that man. My brother had stayed to watch but I didn’t. I’d run home and that night I was sick outside our shack. My brother had said I’d never make a good tsotsi. He’d been right about that. I wanted nothing to do with tsotsis.
I bought some bully beef, canned sausages, baked beans, peas and white bread. It was a lot to carry back to the cemetery but I didn’t mind helping Lucky. That afternoon we sat talking and we drank beer and ate slices of bread with Black Cat peanut butter and golden syrup. The girl arrived at the shack at half past four. She’d brought Lucky’s food and he complained about her being late and she kissed him and he said it was OK. She was a pretty girl with a red dress, red-painted nails, big sunglasses and a square black handbag. Her name was Florence, but Lucky called her Flo.
‘Siphiwe was just leaving,’ Lucky said, winked at me and pulled Flo onto his lap. ‘I’ll see you next week, my brother.’
Sunday, after church, I gathered my courage and went over to Moruti, who was wearing a black suit and white shirt with a white tie, as he did every Sunday, even in the middle of summer. I asked him about Gideon. Moruti was a short fat man with a big voice, which was good for keeping people awake in church. He told me to look in the Book of Judges, in the Old Testament. I meant to look it up after lunch, but Adrian arrived in his Volkswagen Golf GTi. He wanted to take me for a spin. He said I could keep my head down until we’d left the city, so nobody would see me with a cop. We drove to Kempton Park on the highway past the Oliver Tambo International Airport. It was the first time I had been this far from Johannesburg. I told Adrian this.
‘You’re joking,’ he said.
I glanced at him. He had sunglasses on and wore a blue T-shirt that was tight around his chest and arms. I was still not used to it – being friends with a white man.
Adrian drove straight to Steers. It was on a busy corner next to a petrol station. This Steers was smaller than the one in East Gate, but it had the same orange-and-purple umbrellas. Adrian ordered two cheeseburgers with chips and Coke.
‘You want to get married one day, Siphiwe?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’ I chewed slowly. This was good food. I took a sip of Coca-Cola.
‘I do,’ Adrian said. ‘I’d like to have kids. Boys I can go watch play rugby. Girls too.’
‘Girls play rugby?’
‘No, stupid. I’m just saying, I won’t mind having a little girl one day. Take her to ballet lessons, whatever. My mate Robert, he’s a dad. He takes his son to soccer practice. I went with him last week. He’s good, the kid. Good player. You should see Robert shouting and cheering from the side. I mean, he’s not a man to show his feelings, but on the sideline with his kid playing it’s a different story.’
I licked my fingers. ‘Is Robert the Zulu?’
‘Ja, he’s a good man, a good cop. You want another one?’ Adrian got his wallet out. He got us both another burger, and while we ate, I thought about the Zulu cop and Grace’s opinion of him. There was a good chance that the Nigerian had met his match in Adrian’s friend.
‘How can you tell if a gun has been used to kill someone?’ I asked, recalling what the Zulu had said about planting a gun on the Nigerian.
‘Ballistics,’ Adrian said with his mouth full of food. ‘We do tests on the bullet to see which gun has fired it. Every gun’s unique. Like fingerprints for guns, really. As long as we have the bullet, do
esn’t matter if the gun fired the bullet years ago.’
‘Do you do these tests?’
‘Nope, forensic science lab.’
‘Do you like your job?’ I asked.
‘Love it,’ he said, grinning. ‘Meet lots of interesting people.’
‘Like me?’
We both laughed and then he said, ‘I met this girl last week, Siphiwe.’
‘Is she pretty?
‘Yes, she’s . . .’ His hands moved to show curves.
I scratched my head. ‘She’s fat?’
‘She’s not fat! She’s . . .’ He glared at me. ‘She’s beautiful. She’s got dark eyes and dark hair and dimples here.’ His fingers went to his cheeks, then he glared at me again. ‘She’s not fat.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘She’s skinny.’
‘She’s not . . . shut up, will you?’
I laughed.
‘I’m going to ask her out on a date.’
‘Are you going to take her to Steers?’
‘No, man, some place special.’
‘Steers is special. If I have a girlfriend, I’ll bring her here every day.’
‘You’ve got to get out more, Siphiwe.’
I knew he was just joking but somehow it made me sad. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know about things. I knew many things, but I didn’t have a car to go places. I didn’t have money for a taxi and I did not like trains. Despite that, I could tell him a lot about the world. Grace said so too. She said I was clever about people and that I had good judgement. While Adrian ate his burger, I told him what had happened in the market, how I had bumped into a big-time tsotsi. How I’d talked to him and not been killed because I knew how to deal with a man like him. I was streetwise.
‘Letswe,’ he said. He’d stopped eating. ‘I heard a rumour he’s dead.’
‘He’s not dead, unless someone killed him last night.’
‘Hang on, Siphiwe. You saw McCarthy Letswe in Joburg. Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure. He came to me and spoke to me about my cousin who’s in jail for stealing cars.’
City of Blood Page 11
