City of Blood

by Martie de Villiers

  One afternoon, when I returned from work, a white woman with short grey hair was waiting in the living room for me. Grace had made her some good coffee and she introduced us. The woman shook my hand. Her name was Maggie Barnard. She was the woman who would be taking care of the twins. And then, when Grace called, in came the children, Thabang and Mpho, both neatly dressed, with shoes and socks, looking healthy, as children should. Thabang went to sit on a chair and swung his legs, but Mpho came straight to me, climbed on my lap and sat there without moving like she had that day I fed her mashed pumpkin in the kitchen.

  ‘We just came to say goodbye,’ said Maggie Barnard.

  She had a kind voice. I liked her eyes too. They were brown and soft like Grace’s.

  ‘Mpho and Thabang will come and live with me,’ she said. ‘I’ll adopt them.’

  ‘I’m very happy for them,’ I said. ‘I shall write to you and I shall very much like it if Mpho will draw me some more pictures and post them to me. Thabang too, if he wants to draw pictures.’

  ‘I do not like drawing,’ said Thabang. ‘It is for girls.’

  We laughed and then Grace took the children to the kitchen for a glass of milk and I stayed with Maggie Barnard.

  ‘I spoke to the priest at the church shelter,’ she said. ‘The twins are still very scared. Mpho doesn’t want to sleep on her own and Thabang is ashamed to tell when he’s wet his bed. They get nightmares.’

  ‘I understand about nightmares,’ I said. ‘They stay for a long time, perhaps even forever, but love helps. Grace taught me that.’

  She nodded and I smiled, thinking about it. Love: a remedy for nightmares.

  When she was ready to leave, I walked with them to the car, where I shook Thabang’s hand and got a kiss from Mpho. There were special children’s seats for them in the back, to keep them safe; I noticed that Maggie Barnard checked both of them to see whether the seat belts were secured.

  As she reversed out of the driveway, I waved at them and saw Mpho’s little hand against the window. The sun was shining, there were puffy white clouds in the sky and the birds were singing. I might never see them again, but life would be much better for them now and that made me happy.

  Later that afternoon the boys were playing outside throwing a tennis ball around. Grace came out to hang some washing on the line and warned them to keep the ball away from the windows. She watched them play for a while before she came over to me.

  ‘You are doing a good job,’ she said, looking at my vegetables.

  I nodded.

  ‘That Msizi,’ she said. ‘You must keep an eye on him, Siphiwe.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He is plotting. I know that boy.’

  ‘Plotting?’

  ‘Mischief,’ she said. ‘He is plotting mischief.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. He did that all the time, Msizi. There was no stopping him finding ways to get into trouble. ‘I shall watch him, Grace. I shall keep an eye on him.’

  Grace went back to her kitchen and the boys, once again, played more recklessly until one of them threw the tennis ball too high and it landed on the roof. An argument broke out and only stopped when Msizi offered to get the ball. He was so quick, up the wall, clinging to the gutter pipe, then dragging himself up onto the roof. He found two tennis balls and threw them to the others, before he climbed back down again.

  ‘Don’t tell Grace,’ he said when he saw me watching. After Simon broke his arm, they had been forbidden to climb on the roof again.

  Watching him reminded me of Lucky. How he’d wanted Msizi to climb into the Nigerian’s house to get the money and that thought made me mad. Lucky would have got me in big trouble. Grace was right. It was important to choose your friends with care. I still had to speak to Msizi to make sure he wasn’t plotting mischief, but I got busy and was already in bed when I remembered about it.

  On Sunday afternoon, Adrian came by to pick me up. We went to Steers again and we talked about things that had happened since the last time we saw each other. I told him about Mpho and Thabang. He told me that they had found a lot of dagga in the boot of a man’s car and the man then said he had not known there was dagga in the boot when he’d stolen the car.

  ‘How do you arrest a man for dealing drugs?’ I asked Adrian. ‘It is illegal, but everybody is doing it.’

  ‘We have to find drugs on him,’ Adrian said. ‘Like we found that dagga. The more the better.’

  ‘Sylvester Abaju has drugs in his house in Jeppe,’ I said. ‘That man who killed Lucky works for him.’

  ‘Abaju has a house in Jeppe?’ Adrian looked at me as if I had given him a present and at the same time he seemed uncertain if he should believe me.

  ‘You police,’ I said. ‘You know nothing.’

  ‘We know about his house in Yeovil, and there’s a block of flats in Hillbrow that his people use.’

  ‘This house is in Jeppe. It is a nice house, nothing like Yeovil.’

  ‘Where in Jeppe?’

  I didn’t give him an answer. A plan was forming in my head. A plan for revenge. For justice.

  ‘Do you want to arrest Abaju?’

  ‘You bet I do.’

  ‘Then you must wait until he has drugs in the house before you go there. You must be patient.’ I needed time to think this through, so I said, ‘I shall draw you a map of the house and the streets around it. I shall show you where the lookouts are.’

  ‘That sounds good,’ he said.

  ‘What will you do when you know where this house is?’

  ‘Raid it,’ he said. ‘Hit it with lots of cops and dogs and everything we’ve got.’

  I nodded. My new plan grew roots in my head like a small plant, but I did not want to get excited yet. Any gardener could tell you: it was no good getting your hopes up before the plant had emerged from the ground and even then it was not safe. Frost or pests could get it. Or the sun would scorch it and . . . but this was not the same. This was a good plan.

  ‘You must not tell anyone about this,’ I said. ‘You must wait until you have all the information.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Adrian, that man, that Abaju, he pays people in the police to tell him what they are up to. Everybody knows that.’

  ‘I need to tell Robert.’

  ‘If you can trust him,’ I said. ‘But be careful. Money talks, Adrian.’ I rubbed my fingers together. ‘Everybody wants a piece of the action.’

  For the rest of the day I could think of nothing else. I had a plan.

  Dr van der Sandt had brought a small tomato plant for the garden. I knew little about growing tomatoes. I forced the spade into the soil. It was not long before my thoughts returned to my plan. If I could get the police to raid the house . . . If I could get into the house, get the key out from under the carpet, get the money out of the safe and do all of that just before the police raided the house . . . If the Nigerians caught me, then the police would save me, and if I did get away with the money, then the police would arrive, find the drugs in the house and arrest the Nigerians. They would not be able to come after me. The Nigerians might think the police took the money. They might never know that I was there. But it was no good. Even if I could get over the sharp glass on the wall, there was the dog, the guards. No way into the office. My plan had too many ifs.

  I cut the black plastic bag from the tomato plant and loosened the roots with my fingers. I had a feeling tomatoes were difficult to grow. I was sure that they were soft. They would get diseases and pests would get them. The plant fitted well into the hole and I filled it up with soil. Here in our garden the soil was dark brown and soft. Good soil for gardening.

  After I had watered the plant, I washed my hands and went to get the floor plan Lucky had drawn. I kept it under my pillow. I compared the plan with the picture of the house I had in my head. There was the office at the back; next to it, the toilet. That was how Lucky had drawn it. The toilet had a little window with no burglar bars; it was so small that nobody would fit through that win
dow. It would be a waste of bars.

  That night after dinner, I went outside and Msizi followed as usual. He wanted to ask me a question, he said, but before he could get to it, he noticed the two hadida birds searching for worms on the lawn. He raced towards them, his arms flapping like wings, the way toddlers did to chase off pigeons. The birds flew over the roof and Msizi mimicked their call: ‘Ha-ha-hahaha,’ he shouted, holding his hands on both sides of his mouth. He laughed when the birds replied.

  ‘What did you want to ask me?’ I asked when he had calmed down.

  ‘Who will look after Lucky’s mother now that he is dead?’

  He often surprised me, this boy. At times he was just like any other boy, but he could open his heart to others and when he did that he brought smiles to people’s faces. I had seen it happen, even with Grace. That was why she had a soft spot for Msizi, despite his naughtiness.

  ‘She will have to sell more mangoes,’ I said. Life would not get any easier for Hope Mosweu. Not in this city. But at least now the Nigerians would leave her alone.

  ‘Siphiwe, do you remember that day we went to Lucky’s shack when you asked me to be lookout?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, frowning. ‘You listened at the window.’

  He nodded. ‘You and Lucky talked about the money in the Nigerian’s safe. Lucky was going to steal it and buy a speedboat.’

  ‘That was his plan, yes.’

  ‘Is that why they killed him?’

  ‘They killed him because he stole from them. That’s why it is a bad idea to steal from them.’

  ‘Is the money still in the safe?’ Msizi asked.

  ‘Lucky said there’s always money there and more on Mondays when the Nigerian comes to count it. Why do you ask?’

  He shrugged. ‘If I had lots of money I wouldn’t buy a boat.’

  ‘What would you buy then?’

  ‘A bicycle,’ he said. ‘No, a motorbike. A red one.’

  ‘Don’t let Grace hear you talk about motorbikes. She doesn’t like them.’ Grace never had anything good to say about them. As if there were not enough ways to die in this country, that was what Grace said about motorbikes. She said that they were for young men to show off, and then when all that showing off turned bad, it was their mothers who were left to mourn.

  ‘We all dream about being rich, Msizi. If I have money, I shall buy a house, but I don’t have any. Don’t ask questions about that money, OK? Don’t ask about the Nigerians. Look what Lucky got for all his messing about with them.’

  ‘Are you going to steal the money, Siphiwe?’

  ‘No.’

  He leaned towards me and lowered his voice. ‘Are you?’

  ‘No, Msizi,’ I said, thinking about the high wall with the broken glass on. ‘You must not talk about this.’

  ‘If you steal their money, will they try to kill you?’

  ‘If I steal the money, I’ll have to run away.’

  ‘I shall come with you,’ he said. ‘You are my brother.’

  ‘Msizi, it’s impossible to steal the money. I can’t get into the house. Forget about it.’

  ‘You are not leaving me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You are lying, Siphiwe,’ he shouted. ‘You are lying to me.’ He stormed into the house and the next morning during breakfast he did not look at me at all.

  That week, I saw Adrian every second day. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought it was because he liked my company, but all he was after was the location of Abaju’s house. It was like the time after Hope was stabbed. He was harassing me. When I told him so, he shrugged, but I could see he was trying not to smile. Adrian kept asking questions. To keep him happy, I gave him the plan of the house as Lucky had drawn it.

  ‘That is the inside of the house.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Where’s the house?’

  ‘In Jeppe.’

  ‘Yeah, so you said.’ He looked at me, frowning. ‘Siphiwe, I won’t let out that you told me. No one will know.’

  The sun was warm on my skin and up in the sky white clouds floated on the wind. It was so blue, this sky. I would like to visit my uncle in Quaqua one day, see what the sky looked like over there. I would like . . . there were many things I still wanted to do. I didn’t want to die. So, while I sat there, drinking my Coke, I made up my mind. I’d walk past that house one more time, and if I couldn’t see how to get into the office, I would let it go. It was not worth dying for.

  Lungile had planned a trip to the Melville Koppies Nature Reserve. She’d arranged for transport so all the children could go. Mantu and I had to go with her to help look after them. I knew the Koppies well, I had been there on school trips and with Mantu, hiking. Some of the best views of the city were from the top of these hills, but today I had little time to enjoy the view. It was hard keeping everyone together. I stayed at the back of the group to make sure no one was left behind. It was not long before the little ones had to rest. Halfway up, I lifted Jessica onto my back. She was only five.

  When we reached the viewpoint, Lungile got food and drinks out: apples, oranges, cartons of juice and sandwiches. I sat with my back against a boulder, looking down at the city, thinking about my future. Grace was making plans for me, but it would be hard getting the money for further education. Later Jessica came to sit next to me, eating the orange Lungile had cut for her. Behind me the boys were kicking a ball around. Msizi claimed, in a piercing voice, that he’d scored a goal, but Lungile disallowed it.

  ‘Hand ball,’ she shouted.

  ‘No way,’ Msizi said. Laughter broke out.

  The Hillbrow Tower stood like a giant in the distance, Ponte City slightly behind it, the city stretching all along the horizon. Closer to us, the green suburbs baked in the afternoon sun, purple splashes showed where the jacaranda trees were scattered. The wind carried the sweet scent of wild flowers to me. Children’s laughter filled the air. It was a good day. It was only to the north, towards Pretoria, that dark clouds gathered. I looked over my shoulder at the hills. Wild sharp-edged hills, covered with shrubs and trees, red rocks protruding. There were plenty of snakes in these hills, other wildlife too, but the snakes were the ones to look out for. Mantu and I had once come across a puff adder, lying in ambush on a sandy path. Luckily Mantu had spotted the snake in time.

  That evening the Zulu showed up at the shelter to see me. We went outside into the backyard and he asked me a lot of questions, throwing them at me like stones.

  ‘I don’t trust you, Siphiwe,’ he said. ‘First you didn’t want to talk about the Nigerians, now you want to help us. You are playing games.’ He moved in on me fast, grabbed my shirt and pushed me against the garage wall. He was strong, although he was much shorter than me. I never thought of pushing back.

  ‘What is your game, Siphiwe?’ he asked me. ‘You are fucking with us. You are fucking with Adrian.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to help you.’

  He spat on the ground.

  ‘Let me tell you what I shall do,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow I shall come back here and arrest you. I shall find some dagga on you, just a little bit of dagga, but I shall make a scene about it and I shall take you in to the police station.’

  Now I did push at him, trying to get him away from me, but he had his gun out and he pressed the barrel of it hard against my temple.

  ‘What is your game?’

  The kitchen door swung open and light spilled out. The Zulu let go of me. His gun went back into its holster.

  ‘What is going on here?’ Grace asked.

  ‘We’re just talking,’ he said in Zulu.

  ‘In the dark?’

  ‘I can come back tomorrow.’ He smiled and it was the smile of a man who knew no fear.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘We shall finish talking now. It is OK, Grace. He’s leaving now. I shall go and lock the gate behind him.’

  We walked round the house on the path I knew so well that I could follow it despite it being dark. I heard the Zulu’s footsteps
behind me. He didn’t seem to mind the darkness, it seemed he had eyes like a cat. We stopped at the gate, facing each other. In the dim light coming from the street, I searched his face. He was not a man to show his feelings, not a man to cross. I knew he wouldn’t let me be. He’d be worse than Obembe.

  ‘I need ten minutes inside that house,’ I said. ‘That is all I want.’

  ‘Why?’

  I shrugged. He need not know about the money.

  ‘You want to kill that man?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How will you get inside?’ He lit a cigarette, but did not offer me one.

  ‘That’s my problem,’ I said.

  ‘See,’ he said. ‘I was right about you. You are dangerous. That’s the problem with Adrian. He’s naive. He makes friends too easily.’

  A few houses away a dog started barking. A car drove past and loud music spilled through its open windows.

  ‘I need ten minutes.’

  Further down the street another dog joined in the barking. Soon the whole neighbourhood’s dogs would be howling. It was like that with dogs.

  ‘Sharp,’ the Zulu said. ‘Monday we shall hit that house.’

  ‘Abaju goes there in the morning,’ I said. ‘He stays at the house and does his business and he has lunch there. Lucky used to be the one who went to get the pizza.’

  ‘Yes, he likes his pizza,’ the Zulu said and spat sideways again. ‘Tell me about Abaju.’

  I couldn’t tell him much – I would never tell him about my meeting with Abaju. He kept asking questions, as if he didn’t believe I knew so little about the man in the white suit.

  ‘What about his informants in the police?’ he asked. ‘Do you have names?’

  ‘I don’t know any names.’

  ‘I’ll pay you.’

  ‘I don’t know any. I just know what people say and what Lucky told me.’

  ‘You know where the house is and that’s what I want to know.’

  So I gave him the address and told him about the guards and the lookouts at the end of the street.