City of Blood

by Martie de Villiers

  ‘Let’s go for a walk, Siphiwe,’ Letswe said.

  We walked down the street. A woman and a child sat begging on the corner. The sun burned down on us. I felt better out of that dark shebeen, but I still thought he might kill me. Letswe stopped walking.

  ‘Look at me,’ he said, and I raised my eyes. ‘Are you afraid of me, Siphiwe?’

  I nodded.

  His gaze moved on from me, down the street to where a group of teenagers stood talking.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘You’re smart. That’s what I like about you. Let’s walk.’

  The teenagers flattened themselves against the wall when we approached. Only one dared to look at us. He greeted Letswe, calling him Mr Letswe. Most of the street people knew him, or knew of him.

  ‘The pigs are looking for me,’ Letswe said. ‘They are looking for ways to catch me. That is why I’m always on the move.’

  ‘They will not catch you.’ I told him what Lucky had said about Sylvester Abaju having a different car waiting for him in a warehouse.

  ‘That is how he escapes the police,’ I said.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘My friend, Lucky.’

  Whenever he asked a question I told the truth because I was afraid to be caught lying by this man. He was as bad as Abaju. Worse.

  ‘Obembe is after Lucky, but I will not tell him where to find him.’ I took deep breaths to calm myself down. Here I was walking down a street, the smell of woodsmoke in the air, the sound of women’s voices coming from round the corner. Walking with McCarthy Letswe. And less than a week ago, I had stood in a fancy office face to face with Sylvester Abaju. It was a bad situation and I had a feeling it was only the beginning of my troubles.

  ‘Loyalty is a good quality in a man,’ Letswe said. ‘A smart man knows who to be loyal to. Your own kind. We are not loyal to foreigners.’ He spat. ‘The Nigerian had you followed. Do you know that, Siphiwe?’

  ‘When?’ My heart thumped in my chest. I had been so careful, checking the streets. What if I’d led them to Lucky’s hiding place?

  ‘The other day when you talked to him, my men were watching. You went home and didn’t notice the man following you. That alley in Marshalltown that you walked through, that was where my men caught up with the Nigerian’s man. Let me show you what happened to him.’ He took his phone out and made a call.

  Within five minutes a blue Ford came down the street and stopped under an oak tree. The big man got out on the driver’s side and waited for us. He didn’t look at me, but opened the boot when we reached him. Above me the new-green leaves of the tree blocked the sun, only letting a few rays escape and these touched upon Letswe’s face. Despite the sweat running down my back, I was cold. I didn’t want to look inside the boot. I was afraid they would throw me in the boot like the Nigerians had.

  ‘See what we did to him,’ Letswe said. ‘He will not follow you again.’

  There was a dead man in the boot. Naked. And he had died badly. People could not have done this to him. I could smell his blood. I shivered. The big man slammed the boot shut. A car passed us, a motorbike behind it. Letswe was laughing.

  ‘Next time you see your friend, ask him where the warehouse is that the Nigerian changes his car. Ask him to tell you everything about the Nigerian with the white suit. Next week I shall come to speak to you again and you can tell me what you have learned. Take this.’ Two hundred rand, four fifties. ‘Take it.’

  I was too scared to refuse. I was standing in the street with two bad tsotsis and a dead man in the boot of the car, right next to me. Once more I felt like I did that day the crowd had caught up with me and my brother, only this time running away wouldn’t get me anywhere.

  ‘One thousand rand, if you tell me where this warehouse is, Siphiwe. William and I would like to speak to the Nigerian’s boss. We would like to have a word with him. Eh, William? Just a chat.’

  The big man grinned.

  ‘Do you know what an RPG-7 is, Siphiwe?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘An RPG-7 is the best way to deal with a big problem. It’s my weapon of choice. We get Abaju in his warehouse, and boom. End of story.’

  ‘I don’t know if Lucky will know where the warehouse is,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t want to lose my temper, Siphiwe. You know me. If you piss me off, you will pay the price.’

  ‘I know,’ I said quickly, before he could get angry. ‘There is something else Lucky told me. The Nigerian has a house in Jeppe. A safe house. It is where he keeps his money.’

  Letswe’s smile reminded me of a dog showing his teeth. I had told him and now I could not turn back. Perhaps he would take the information and leave me alone.

  ‘What is the address?’ Letswe asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ It was the first lie and it had slipped out before I had considered it. I should not play all my cards at once. I could bring him the address and the map Lucky had drawn and then it would be over. He’d be satisfied with that. He’d take his RPG-7 and kill the Nigerian, maybe he’d kill all of them. One less thing for me to worry about.

  ‘You don’t know?’ Letswe said.

  ‘I can find out. Lucky knows this place very well.’

  ‘You do that, Siphiwe Modise. You do that.’ His expression changed again. The smile was gone, but he did not look as if he was going to kill me any more either. ‘This is good news you’ve given me, Siphiwe.’ He dropped his hand on my shoulder. ‘We will go to this house. You will come with us. I shall get you a gun.’

  He walked over to the passenger side, opened the Ford’s door, but didn’t get in.

  ‘Come here,’ he called. ‘Take this.’

  I expected him to hand me a gun there and then, but it was only a phone. ‘There’s fifty-rand airtime on that. Wait.’ He took the phone again, punched in some numbers, and handed it to me. ‘You find that address, Siphiwe, and phone me. But don’t waste my time, you understand? Get the information right.’

  They both got in the blue Ford and drove off. I walked to the shelter, wondering how I had landed in all this trouble. For four years I had worked hard and kept my head down. I would have to get Lucky to tell me all he knew about the Nigerian and then tell Letswe, or he would kill me. And if the Nigerians knew I told him, they would kill me. Everywhere I looked, trouble was waiting.

  That night I couldn’t sleep. I did not want to go anywhere near the Nigerians. I did not want to join Letswe’s gang and start shooting people. I kicked the blankets off me and listened to Mantu’s snoring. Later I pulled my shirt off. It was soaked in sweat. Not the heat. Fear. When the fear finally left, it was replaced with anger. That big man should not be threatening boys like Msizi. Saying he would cut his throat. Poor Msizi. And they should not drag me into their business with the Nigerians. I wanted nothing to do with them. I turned on my side. What if Lucky had lied about the house? I’d go and speak to him again, but I wouldn’t tell him about Letswe. Letswe could have the Nigerian’s money, he could start his war. There was a good chance he would win. I thought of Lucky’s plans to get rich. Now if Letswe took care of the Nigerian . . . If Lucky could get into the house before Letswe attacked it. Perhaps Letswe and the Nigerian would kill each other and we could get the money. Fool. Forget about the money. Stay alive.

  26

  AN HOUR TO midnight. Letswe was home, lying in bed, watching Lucille who was doing her toenails, balls of cotton wool all over the floor, her lips pressed together in concentration.

  ‘You had them done yesterday,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t like that colour.’

  Finally she was done. Now the wait for the nails to dry. He looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table. Ten minutes? He was not a patient man. Down the street a car alarm went off and the dogs started howling.

  ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ Lucille asked.

  ‘Nothing much,’ Letswe said.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Progress told me you are very busy.’

  ‘He did
?’

  ‘Ha,’ she said. ‘He lied, he does not want to come shopping with me.’

  ‘If he’s rude to you, tell me. He is getting cocky, that boy.’

  ‘No, he’s not rude, he just wants to hang out with you. He wants to be just like you. He told me. He is copying you, that is why he is cocky.’

  Letswe laughed.

  Lucille stood up, walked over to him, with the balls of cotton wool between her toes, leaned over and kissed him. ‘I’m going to buy my man a present tomorrow.’

  ‘Is it my birthday?’

  ‘No, it is our anniversary on Sunday.’

  ‘Isn’t it in January?’

  ‘No, this is a different anniversary,’ she said, smiling. ‘The first time I saw you. It was at Sophia Mphanga’s wedding. Do you remember? One look at you and I knew you were the man for me.’

  He pulled her down on the bed next to him. ‘I’ll tell Progress to go with you tomorrow. Why does he call himself Jackson?’

  ‘He thinks people will laugh at him if he says his name is Progress. You know what young men are like. He wants to sound tough.’

  Somehow Lucille had arranged it. When Progress arrived at Lucille’s, Letswe told him to go with her and now they were on their way to meeting Sylvester Abaju. An office block in Sandton City, near the square. He had to phone Obembe to get the address. He had not stored the number on his phone, but memorised it, and still he lay awake at night thinking what would happen if Letswe found he had spoken to Obembe, if he learned how he was betrayed.

  Progress was driving, feeling the tension, checking the rear-view mirror all the time. Lucille was so calm, she made him nervous, looking out of the window, commenting on this and that as they drove on.

  ‘Years ago, when Abaju first came to Johannesburg, he had a nickname,’ she said. ‘People called him the Chameleon. I don’t know why.’

  Two Nigerians waited for them at the door of a big glass-fronted building with a fountain in the middle of the foyer. Suits, ties, looking sharp. The sound of running water should be soothing, but it wasn’t. It made him think of drowning. Progress kept glancing around. They patted him down, took his gun – the Beretta Letswe had given him. He scowled at them.

  ‘It is OK, Progress,’ Lucille said. ‘They will give it back when we are done.’

  Up in a lift – all gold and chrome. Two men flanking them, two more waiting for them on the ninth floor. They stepped into a corridor, some colourful prints on the walls: African scenes, boys herding cattle, old men smoking pipes. As if that other world, rural Africa, was just round the corner. Nobody spoke. One of the bodyguards led the way, one followed behind them, two stayed put. The leader knocked on a door to his left, opened the door, stepped aside. Lucille walked past him without hesitation, without waiting for an invitation. Progress followed close behind her, his gaze darting ahead of Lucille. Two more bodyguards, six in total, and there behind the desk, in his white suit: Sylvester Abaju.

  He greeted them with a dramatic movement of his hands: a welcoming gesture. He sat in a huge black leather chair behind a desk that was completely empty – not even a pen, or a scrap of paper in sight. A borrowed desk that would not carry so much as his fingerprints when they evacuated these offices. Progress had to admire the way Abaju operated.

  ‘Now, what more can a man ask for?’ Abaju said. ‘An unexpected visit by a beautiful woman.’ He ignored Progress. ‘A woman with good taste,’ he said as his gaze lingered on her. ‘Please, sit down, sit down.’ Abaju flicked the fingers of his left hand, and without a word, the bodyguards left the room. The door closed behind them.

  Progress remained standing.

  Lucille sat down and crossed her long legs, dropped her handbag onto the floor and tossed her hair back casually. She had not once taken her eyes off Abaju.

  ‘How about a drink?’ Abaju said. ‘Some bubbly?’

  ‘Perhaps later,’ Lucille said and sounded completely at ease. As if she was not risking her life being there.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Abaju asked.

  ‘It’s what I can do for you that should interest you.’

  Abaju raised one eyebrow and leaned back. This was a man whose whole life was an act, Progress thought. But he was good. Impressive, and very unlike Letswe. None of the violence that lurked beneath the surface, but all polished up and cool. He was a snake, a cold-blooded venomous creature that struck from the shadows and left his prey to die slowly. Progress’s gaze shifted to Lucille. He had never seen her like this, so confident and graceful, totally fearless.

  ‘That is an interesting comment,’ Abaju said. ‘What can you possibly do for me?’

  ‘I can give you McCarthy Letswe,’ Lucille said, and in an instant the image of nonchalance shattered. Abaju flew up. He leaned forward over the desk, hatred edged into every line of his face.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Abaju shouted. ‘I killed him. I killed him three years ago.’

  He wanted to believe that, Progress sensed, but he didn’t really. Abaju knew Letswe was out there. Was it fear he saw in his eyes?

  ‘No, you failed,’ Lucille said. ‘He’s here in Johannesburg, planning to blow you up with an RPG-7. He’s watching you. He’s been watching you for months.’

  Abaju walked over to the window, his back to them. It took him a full two minutes to compose himself and then he slipped back in behind his rented desk, brought his hands together as if he was praying, flashed his sparkling white teeth at Lucille and said, ‘I shall welcome my enemy’s enemy as a friend.’

  Lucille turned her head, smiled at Progress and said, ‘Jackson, leave us for a moment.’ She winked at him. He left the room and stood outside next to the bodyguards who glared at him but didn’t speak. He wished they weren’t there. He wished he could stand with his ear against the door to hear what Lucille was saying to Abaju.

  Seven minutes passed, he knew because he was counting in his head, then Matthew Obembe came marching down the corridor. He wore tight trousers and a purple shirt, the top three buttons undone to show his chest. No cartoon tie today. He stepped past Progress and into the office without knocking. Progress started counting the seconds again. Five minutes. He heard laughter inside, lost count of the seconds, but then Lucille came out of the office, with Matthew Obembe behind her.

  Obembe steered her to the lift, his gaze caressing Lucille, her legs, her hips, breasts. Progress had never before experienced such an overwhelming dislike for someone. If he’d had his gun, he’d have shot him. Obembe pressed the button to call the lift, leaning over Lucille to do so. He accompanied them down, the smell of his aftershave threatening to suffocate them in the enclosed space. Progress tried not to breathe too deeply. All the way down he thought of ways to kill Obembe. He’d like to use Letswe’s dogs.

  ‘My gun,’ Progress said when they reached the bottom. His gaze met Obembe’s.

  Obembe took his phone out and flicked it open. ‘Bring the boy his gun.’

  The boy? He would use the RPG. Blow his head off. Just like that, no more head, just a purple shirt, too-tight trousers and big feet in crocodile-leather shoes.

  The bodyguard brought his gun down and held on to it for a second too long when Progress tried to take it. Lucille put her hand on his arm. ‘Not now, Progress,’ she whispered in his ear. She’d read his mind.

  Once they were out of the building Lucille took a deep breath, looked over her shoulder to where Obembe was standing, watching her.

  ‘He stinks,’ she said and Progress laughed.

  27

  AS I APPROACHED Lucky’s shack, I noticed the fat red ants hurrying around my feet on the dusty path. In the trees, the birds were silent, as if they too had their eyes on the black sky to the north. Nature knew when a storm was approaching long before people did, long before the first drops hit the earth. Tonight, perhaps this afternoon, there would be a thunderstorm.

  But for the moment, the sun was hot on my neck and the heat coming up from the sun-baked path burned through my shoes. This w
as what summer felt like. The moment I left the shade of the trees the sun came at me like a man’s fist. I pulled my new cap lower over my eyes. I could buy sunglasses, not expensive sunglasses like Lucky’s, just plain ones to protect my eyes. I still planned to save the money I made at the charity, I didn’t want to buy new clothes or anything else, but I needed a new pair of shoes. There was Lucky’s shack between the trees. I smiled. He would not want to be seen wearing cheap sunglasses. He liked to spend money.

  A fly buzzed around my head and I waved it away. The air was still and heavy with a strange smell. It was the heat. Winter’s dead leaves lay rotting under the trees. All that rain we had last week. For the last three days there had been no rain and every day the temperature climbed and climbed.

  Last night I watched the news with Grace after the children had gone to sleep. They had shown pictures of floods in KwaZulu Natal, damage done to people’s houses, and the river had taken a lot of sugar cane with it to the sea. Droughts or floods. Us people, we were so small against the burning of the sun, against the building of thunderclouds in the sky. I looked over my shoulder at the dark clouds. The wind was changing. That storm would soon come this way. I could imagine the trees bending over in the wind, the heavy rain, thunder and lightning which would cause the electricity to go down. We’d eat by candlelight and Grace would tell the children a story and afterwards they would go to bed and Msizi would be scared and he’d try to sneak into my room. Msizi was so brave in daytime.

  I stood in front of the shack’s fragile door, my mouth open, ready to call out: Lucky Mosweu, are you home? But I hesitated. I waved the flies away, removed my cap and wiped the sweat off my forehead. The door was partially open. There was no sound coming from inside the shack. Perhaps Lucky was asleep.

  ‘Lucky Mosweu,’ I called like I had done the day I first met him, and like that day, there was no answer. Why would Lucky leave the door open if he was not home? I was ready to knock, but then I opened my hand and pressed against the door with my palm. Lucky was careless. He would leave the door open. He would say that the door was useless anyway, or that the lock didn’t work properly.