Most of the tar on the road leading to Mona Mxolisi’s house had disintegrated, and large crevices and pools of water made it into an obstacle course. We were forced to weave from one side of the road to the other, while avoiding oncoming traffic, and being careful not to leave one of our wheels behind in the large water-filled potholes. A cart laden with bundles of chopped kindling slowed things further as the horse pulling it struggled over the terrain. Beside the road a wide strip of dust was being churned into mud, and a stream of huddled pedestrians picked their way along it, heading home from work, or making their way to an evening shift, several with plastic bags held over their heads to protect them from rain. A man carried two chickens, one tucked under each arm, and several of the women carried all manner of things in the traditional African manner: piled on top of their heads. As we moved closer to the old centre of the township, the tin shacks gave way to more established houses. They were small, only two or three rooms to a house, but built of brick and had glass windowpanes.
Mona Mxolisi had been looking out for us, because the door opened as we approached it, and she stood there watching us splash our way up the muddy track that led to the front door.
Her hair was beaded and curled onto her head like a sleeping snake. She wore a loose caftan over her ample figure, and as we approached, she held out a welcoming arm which jingled with bangles and bracelets.
Her house was a warm cave, a comfortable shelter from the rain, the cold, and even the constant presence of poverty outside. It was a tiny two-roomed house. Every surface of the front room held artifacts made from papier mâché, reworked cooldrink cans, even the roots of trees. Mona was a teacher at the local primary school, and the objects were the work of her students, testament to the love they had for her.
A kettle was boiling, and Mona made us strong Rooibos tea which she served with lemon.
“I knew I should have kept my mouth shut,” she said. “Should never have said anything to that journalist. When they announced that monster was going to be the president of the country I knew it would not be long before I’d be sitting here explaining myself.”
“Monster?” asked Khanyi.
“Oh, yes.” Mona smiled and sipped at her tea. “He’s a monster, but no one knows it. Isn’t that the truth of this world?” Her bangles played a quick melody as she placed her teacup back into its saucer.
“By all accounts he’s a hero of the people,” I said, trying not to make it sound sarcastic.
“And there’s the irony, isn’t it? Because he spent time on Robben Island, he is a hero. But because I spend time in the church, does that make me a saint? We are not defined by our location, but by our deeds.”
Mona’s face was serene, a constant amused expression on it as if everything she saw struck her in some way as being odd. But it was an amusement tinged with regret.
“And his deeds … the things the president-elect did … he did something … monstrous?” asked Khanyi.
Mona nodded. “He did.”
“Something to Lindiwe?”
Another nod. Mona sipped her tea.
“It’s too late for justice, though,” said Mona. “Isn’t it?”
“We don’t know that it’s too late. Some crimes deserve justice no matter how many years have passed.”
“I suppose so,” said Mona, and her bangles gave another burst of music.
“We wondered whether he might have been responsible for her death,” said Khanyi.
“No,” said Mona. “The monstrous thing he did was not to kill her.”
“Could you tell us what he did?” said Khanyi.
“No one knows about it,” said Mona. “That journalist was the only person I told, and I saw that he died in an accident.” She pulled a tissue from her brassiere and used it to wipe her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said through the tears that had suddenly sprung there, “it’s so foolish of me after all these years.”
We sat in silence for a moment as Mona composed herself. The room had a slight haze in the air, and I noticed a stick of incense burning in a holder on the kitchen table.
“I didn’t understand where you said you came from,” she said when the tears were dry. “You’re not with the press are you?”
“We’re in the civil service,” said Khanyi as if that had some meaning.
“I wouldn’t want to talk to the press again. That journalist was a mistake. They drag everything out into the open, and before you know it they’ve twisted all your words, and you’re the one in trouble.”
“Not press,” said Khanyi, and Mona felt good enough about that to pour her more tea.
“I do have to tell someone,” she admitted. “Because there’s nobody else who knows about it. They’re all dead, aren’t they?” She smiled as if that was a good thing and sipped some of her tea.
“All the people who knew what he did to Lindiwe are dead?” I said.
“That’s right. All burned.” Another sweet smile.
“He did something to her before the fire?”
“It was long before the fire. Must have been two years before. She was only sixteen.”
“Could you tell us about it?” I asked.
“I could,” said Mona. “And should.” She drew a deep breath. “Lindi and Wandile had been an item as we used to say, for only a few months. They were like soul mates. Or what is it they say today? Twin flames. From the moment they laid eyes on each other it was a union that was inevitable. At least it seemed that way to all of us, her friends. A union made in the heavens.” A pause, another sip of tea.
“Wandile was the brother of Thulani?” I asked.
Mona nodded. “But Wandile’s brother, the monster, he also noticed Lindi’s beauty. Did you know she was beautiful? Not the emaciated sticks they put in magazines now, but the kind of beauty that takes your breath away when you’re with them, and that stays with you afterwards. I still feel her beauty, here in my heart.” Mona placed a hand on her ample bosom. “Because her beauty was not only physical. It was her spirit. It was something that never dies.”
Mona stood up abruptly and moved over to the kitchen area where she busied herself filling a kettle with water.
“Then that night,” she continued with her hand on the kettle and her gaze directed out of the window at the miserable dusk. “That night she and Wandile were having a night out, and Lindi had me along as chaperone. She and Wandile had kissed, but no more. In those days it was different. It wasn’t drugs and alcohol and sex at the age of fourteen. It was holding hands and sending messages to each other on scraps of paper. Or telling a friend to tell their friend, you know the kind of thing.” Mona gave the kettle a shake to encourage the water to boil faster.
“It was at the Nyanga Bar on the corner of Street Three. It’s gone now, of course, but if I were to go there now, I wouldn’t want to approach within a hundred metres of the place. It was a dive. No lights. Most of Khayelitsha had no power back then, it was like one big campsite, and the paraffin lamps …” Mona emitted a low ‘whooo’, “so dangerous. But there was enough light from the paraffin lamps in the Nyanga Bar for the monster to see Lindi, and to be reminded of her beauty.”
Another shake of the kettle. From the chair on which Mona had been sitting, an orange cushion detached itself and stretched. It was an enormous ginger cat which yawned, stretched again, gave a brief purr like a tractor getting started, then lay down again.
“He saw her and he wanted her for himself,” continued Mona. “For himself and his friends. Monsters, all of them. Even the word monster does them no justice. The words umoya o ngendawo in Xhosa are better, but that’s not a phrase you know. Foul spirits … You need a word that is so awful you cannot bring yourself to say it.
“They sent Wandile to get them all drinks, then told me he’d need help carrying them. Such a sweet man, Wandile. He didn’t know how to get served at the bar. Timid as a mouse. Stood behind the crowd and we waited while he hoped the barman would see him. We were underage, but Wandile was already tal
l, and so he just stood waiting for the barman to see him. The barman wouldn’t bother about our age. There was no ‘show me your ID’ in those days. In any case the monster brother already had a reputation, and everyone knew him. They all loved him, as the entire country does now. But in those days it was just the locals who knew him. They loved him because he was brash. He was angry and repulsive. They loved him because he was a bully. We needed a bully. That’s what they said. Needed a bully to fight the oppressors, stand up for ourselves.”
The kettle boiled and Mona refilled the teapot and brought it back to us. Her cheeks were moist, gentle tears rolling down them. She smiled through the tears as she refilled my cup. “Eventually the barman did see poor Wandile. He looked very much like the monster brother. A skinnier version, but there was a strong likeness, and so Wandile benefited from the love and respect everyone had for the monster. That’s something I often wonder, even to this day. Why all the respect, all the love for that man? Am I the only person in this world to see him for the monster he is? How does no one else see it? Of course, Wandile saw it, and he’s looking down on me now, I’m sure. Shaking his head and urging me gently to tell the world what a monster his brother is.” Mona reached for the tissue again and dabbed at her face. Khanyi sipped her tea noisily.
“Wandile didn’t even have to say what he wanted, the barman just handed over the beers. That was all we used to drink back then, Lion beer. He handed Wandile the five beers for the monsters, and then three for us, which I carried.
“By the time we got back to the table where we’d left Lindi, they were all gone. The monsters, Lindi, all of them. It wasn’t like it is now, that you go outside to have a smoke. We all just smoked wherever we liked. So we didn’t expect to find them gone.” Mona noticed the cat beside her and stroked it absently. The cat produced the loud tractor-like purr.
“I saw Wandile begin to panic. He knew his brother, and he didn’t like finding them all missing.
“We went out into the street, Wandile and me. It was crowded, young people standing around breaking the law by drinking outside the premises, but who cared about that? The police would cruise around in their yellow Casspirs, but we’d know they were coming long before they got there. I’m thinking to myself: Lindi has come outside with the older boys because she doesn’t want to sit at the table alone. We’d taken a long time to get those beers.”
“It was cold, bitterly cold, and the breath of all the street drinkers formed little clouds above their heads. I remember that clearly. There was one bright light at the end of the street, and I remember how all the groups had clouds above them that caught the light. We went from one to the next, looking and asking. Wandile’s panic built up, and I kept saying it’s OK, Wandie, they’ve gone back home. They’ve gone to buy weed. They’ll be back.”
“I don’t remember how long we searched. Two, three hours? We went back to Wandie’s shack, but there was no one there. We went to the shacks of all his brother’s friends. Nothing. Back to my shack where Lindi was staying for the weekend. She lived in the whitey’s suburbs, but she would come and stay with me to see Wandile. Nothing.”
“Back at the bar later and Wandie can hardly breathe now, he keeps saying ‘they’ve killed her, I know they have’. I stop denying it. What can I say? I follow Wandie back in, and there is the monster! There he is. All the monsters. Back in the bar. He’s got a scratch on his face, and a bruised eye that will be bad in the morning. Wandie runs at him. ‘Where is she?’ The monster laughs. He laughs.” Mona stopped and dabbed at her eyes again with the tissue which was beginning to disintegrate in her hands. Khanyi made a sympathetic clucking sound.
“Then Wandie hits him. Good and square in the face and a fight breaks out. They haul him out the door and beat him. I try to stop them, but they lash out at me, and another boy from the school holds me back and pulls me away. It’s between the brothers he says, nothing to do with me. They stop the beating when he stops moving, and they leave Wandie lying in the street. I go to him, and he’s just groaning with pain. But he’s breathing and still moving. I help him up. Then we start looking. Wandie leaning on me so much I have to keep stopping to recover my strength. His face is smashed, his eyes swollen so he can hardly see, and there’s a new black hole in his nice white teeth except now they’re all covered in blood. We walk around and around, calling and looking.
“All night we do this. The streets go quiet about three in the morning, maybe four. There are no phones. In those days we didn’t have little computers in our pockets, or even watches on our wrists. All I know is we’re alone in that black night, just the two of us. One foot in front of the other, calling for Lindi.
“Then there’s some light. Not much, but there’s light in the sky and I can see the bushes beside the road. And then I see Lindi too. She’s lying in the ditch next to the road. I drop Wandie right there, and I scramble and fall down the side of the ditch. I know in my heart she’s dead, and when I get to her, she doesn’t move. Her face is down in the dust, and I grab her shoulder and roll her over. Her face is all blood. But then she groans. She’s alive.”
Mona sipped some tea and gave the cat another stroke. “I don’t know how Wandie and I got her back to my shack. My mother was a nurse, and she had everything. Lindi lay in that bed of mine for three weeks. I phoned the whiteys she lived with. Told them Lindi was ill. They wanted to come and fetch her, but Lindi stayed with us.”
Mona sighed as if a great ordeal was over. Her bangles played another merry tune as she reached for her tea and drank.
“They took it in turns,” she said. “All five of them. The others held her down and when she struggled they hit her until she passed out.”
“She didn’t go to the police? Report it?” asked Khanyi.
Mona shook her head. “Not back then. We talked about it. But what good would it have done? The monster was the leader of the pack, he was destined to be the saviour of our people. Already everyone was saying that. He could have whatever woman he wanted as far as they were concerned. The police were mostly white, they’d point their guns at us and throw tear-gas to keep us inside the fences. But a little domestic squabble? What did they care?”
We sat in silence for a moment and then Mona turned to me. “So you see, the monster did kill her. She died that night.”
“And later,” I asked. “Two years later. After the fire. What happened then?”
“After the fire she came alive again,” said Mona. “For a few days. She came to me and said, did I know that Karma had come to town? That they’d all died in a fire. She was like another person, her eyes full of hope. The monster was dead, and Wandile was badly burned, but he would survive. Her life would come back to her. She said that. But of course it wasn’t Wandile who survived the fire. The monster survived. It wasn’t karma after all. Sweet Wandie, so gentle and full of love for her, who’d been beaten all his life by his monstrous brother, and had his heart ripped out of him when they raped her. He was the one who died, and the monster survived.”
“What happened to her after that?” I said.
“She faded,” said Mona. “That’s what she did. When she discovered it was not Wandile lying in that hospital bed, the lights went off and she faded.”
“The files don’t explain how she died. Was there an accident? A crime?”
Mona shook her head. The tears had stopped now, but her eyes were red, and her lips trembled.
“They said they found her body in a ditch, just as I had found her before. Like a wrinkle of time, as if she had never left that ditch. Said it was suicide, but Lindi was stronger than that, despite everything.”
“Is Lindiwe still alive?” I asked.
A silence filled the room. Mona looked at me. She stroked the cat again, fuelling another engine start which was so loud it swelled to fill the room.
“Where did you say you were from?” asked Mona.
“We work for the security policeman who adopted Lindiwe,” said Khanyi. “Father Don Fehrson.”
>
“Father?” said Mona.
“He was once a priest.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Mona. “We used to call him the Frightener … no that’s not right … Fearsome … that was it. He was a kind man, I remember, but I didn’t know he was a priest. Lindi used to say there were good people on the other side, they weren’t all oppressors, and he was one of the good ones. Did her adopted father send you to see me then?”
Khanyi opened her mouth to deny it, but I beat her to it.
“Yes,” I said. “He told us you were one of Lindiwe’s closest friends.”
“You should have said he sent you,” said Mona. “I wouldn’t have wasted so much of your time.”
“She is still alive?”
“For thirty years I have kept her secret,” said Mona. “But that monster is going to find her now, isn’t he? He’s going to find her, and finish what he started.”
“We would like to prevent that,” said Khanyi.
“I will give you an address,” said Mona. She heaved herself out of the chair and wrote something on the edge of a page in a notebook which she tore from the book and folded up carefully. She handed Khanyi the folded paper.
“There will be no justice, will there?” said Mona. “I knew that, even when I told that foreign journalist some of the story. I should have told him that the monster had killed her, and I’d seen it with my own eyes. There might have been some justice then, but there will be no justice for the victim of a gang rape.”
Khanyi looked regretful, but there was no denying it.
“A bit like that story from Cape Town,” said Mona. “I’m sure it’s not true, just an urban myth. The woman who phoned the police because there was an intruder in her house, and they told her it would take them half an hour to get a patrol car there, and she should protect herself as best she could. She knew half an hour meant two hours – this is Cape Town after all. So she called them back and said: ‘Don’t bother, I killed the intruder.’ Three minutes later the helicopters arrived.”
Treasonous Page 21
