The Eternal Audience of One

by Rémy Ngamije

  “Cheer up,” he said. “The bed isn’t that small considering you might not get laid. Once you open the curtains the view’s okay in the summer, and in winter when the room gets ass cold you don’t have to walk all the way to the bathroom to take a leak.” He looked at the wash-basin pointedly.

  “Are you serious?” Séraphin asked.

  “Just run some hot water in the sink with some dishwashing liquid and it should be fine.” Séraphin could not decide whether he was joking or not.

  “It’s kind of a tradition,” Tendai said. “There’re two types of Sobukwe House students – those who pee in the sink and liars. Anyway, dinner starts at six this evening.” He separated Séraphin’s room key from his bunch and tested it in the door once more before leaving it in the lock. “Room’s all yours. By the way, security tip. Since you’re on the ground floor I wouldn’t advise leaving your window open if you aren’t in the room. Not unless you want your gear to be, how do we say it, affirmatively repositioned.” Séraphin raised an eyebrow. “Stolen.”

  “Right.”

  When Tendai left, Séraphin appraised his situation: the quietest residence on campus; a room with old furniture and a wash-basin that had served as the piss pot for innumerable male students before him; and the possibility of being the victim of theft on the off-chance he forgot to close his bedroom windows. His first impressions of Remms were falling short of the hype.

  Sans_Seraph—YvesSaint: I think I’m in a frat house.

  YvesSaint: Hahaha. How bad is it?

  Sans_Seraph: Mofos pee in sinks here.

  YvesSaint: Serious? Haven’t they given us us free in South Africa yet?

  Sans_Seraph: I’m still in shock. People weren’t raised right when they’re taking leaks in basins, man.

  YvesSaint: You’re going to do some white boy frat shit. I can feel it.

  Sans_Seraph: I also feel some dumb shit heading my way soon. Tell Mamma and Papa I’m okay.

  YvesSaint: Will do.

  Sans_Seraph: Time to go and see what university food’s like.

  YvesSaint: Hopefully nobody pees in it.

  Sans_Seraph: Fuck. Check you.

  The legend of the Séraphin Smackdown has been told many times and each retelling changes the story a bit, adding extra gloss to the sequence of events, embellishing the speech to make it tickle the tongue and jab at the ribs. But here, on paper made from the lungs of the earth, where things are true because they are written down, the truth can finally be told.

  When Séraphin walked into the Sobukwe dining hall it was crowded. The older students could be picked out by their casual walks into the hall, collecting their trays, plates, and cutlery, and approaching the serving counters and moaning a little when the servers dished out spoonfuls of rice, butternut, peas and carrots, and forked over a pasty chicken breast. The first-year students offered up their plates and accepted whatever was put on it. In days to come they would learn how to flirt with the staff for extra helpings. The more astute among them would learn to arrive early at meal times when the kitchen staff were still in a good mood, before the insults and disappointed sighs at the proffered sustenance soured their expressions. The really sly ones would get second helpings. They would be the ones sleeping with the kitchen staff.

  This was not known to Séraphin when he picked up his tray that first evening and joined the queue of students waiting for their food. The serving woman flashed him a smile as she spooned some rice onto his plate and he smiled back courteously before moving on to the next stop where another woman, her braids in a hair net, said, “This one looks quiet.” She scooped vegetables onto his plate. The last woman at the counter skewered a piece of chicken and put it on his plate. She said, “They’re all quiet at first. But later when you get them alone, eish!”

  Her comment had brought laughter from the rest of the serving line and raised eyebrows from Séraphin who did not understand the joke. Holding his tray steady, he surveyed the hall, looking for a place to sit. He spotted Tendai sitting at a table with some other students and walked towards him. They exchanged a brief greeting as Séraphin sat down. There was little for the two to say to each other so they both tucked into their supper. The other students at the table were all older, and clearly familiar to Tendai judging by how easily conversation sprang up between them, mostly about the arduousness of the upcoming semester.

  “These freshers don’t know what’s waiting for them,” said a thick-shouldered boy with sandy-coloured hair sitting across from Séraphin. The boy tossed Séraphin a nod. “First comes O-week, then comes whore weeks, and then, finally, no weeks.” Tendai and the rest of the table laughed.

  “The cycle at Remms for first years,” Tendai explained. “They party too much, then they get roped into – what is a polite word – shenanigans. Then, when it’s too late, they realise they’re here to study. Most fail.”

  “Don’t worry about it, fresher,” said another boy. He was stringy and dark. “We’ve all been there. Obviously, we’re the ones who didn’t take it too far. Always ask yourself this: if my mother walked into my life right now, what would she say? The answer to that will always keep you focused.”

  “And Jesus,” said another dark-skinned boy with an untraceable accent. He was immediately peppered with crumpled serviettes.

  “What you don’t want to do,” Tendai said, “is be fodder for the FAFY crew.”

  “What’s that?” Séraphin asked.

  “Fuck A First Year!” said three boys around the table simultaneously.

  “You’re new,” Tendai said. “Maybe it’s your first time away from your parents. There will be girls around you. Or boys. You never know. Remms accepts all kinds. Like Michael here, whose sexuality is determined by geograph – straight at home, not so much in Cape Town” – the boy named Michael threw a middle finger at Tendai – “anyway, what I’m saying is that temptation shall besiege you on all sides—”

  “—and only the Lord Jesus Christ shall be your anchor in the storm!” More serviettes were lobbed in the speaker’s direction.

  “And from time to time you can indulge.” Tendai placed his hand on his chest reverently. “The fruits of Remms are many and varied, and from all the trees and bushes you can freely partake. But from the tree in the middle of the garden you are forbidden to eat. What is this tree, you ask? ’Tis the Tree of Failure, fresher. Its shade is long, its clasp is warm and kind, and it alone stops you from ascending to a higher plane of existence. What you want to do is survive long enough in Remms to enjoy everything it has to offer.”

  “Only one way to survive, man,” said Michael. “Work harder than you play.”

  “Work hard, pray hard,” said the boy on the other side of the table. Fortunately for him, the diners had run out of serviettes to throw.

  “That’s Jean-Paul, by the way,” Tendai said. “Our resident moral compass. He shall speak kindly for the rest of us at the End of Days. But don’t take him too seriously. He only spouts that Christian bullshit to get into girls’ pants. He’s as dirty as the rest of us. Not as dirty as Michael, though. No hell will accept Michael.”

  The other sinners at the table laughed. They introduced themselves. Like Tendai, Michael was also a Zimbabwean. Jean-Paul hailed from Cameroon. Preston was the one who had initiated the conversation about first-year students. He was South African. “And definitely getting it on with someone behind the counter,” said Michael as he looked at Preston’s heaped plate with envy. Preston flushed while the rest of the table laughed. The introductions were smooth and friendly. The clinking of forks and knives on plates played second fiddle to chatter about surviving university. Everyone had advice for Séraphin.

  “Sometimes cruelty is better.”

  “Ask questions. No matter how simple or silly they seem. You can’t leave a lecture not knowing. Blacks don’t ask questions, man. They just keep quiet as though understanding will reach by osmosis.”

  “Avoid women at all costs. They’ll be your undoing.”


  “Ignore JP. You need to dive into the women. Every single one. You don’t look too terrible – Michael would be a better judge – so it’s gonna be thrown at you. And when it is, you need to swing for the fences, chap. Not every once in a while, either. Every single ball, bru. Fours, sixes, people’ll have to get their hard hats out.”

  “Preston talks a lot of shit. You do all that and you’re not going to last long. Moderation is key.”

  “Avoid drama unless there’s a television deal in the works. At the very least there should be a book, otherwise it isn’t worth it.”

  Séraphin nodded and laughed along with each bit of advice.

  The merry gathering was disturbed by the arrival of Dale.

  He was a big boy, thickset, wearing scandalously short shorts which showed off his muscular thighs. Dale pulled an empty seat from a nearby table and squeezed in between Michael and Preston. He nodded to the table as a whole and picked up his cutlery. After the first forkful he turned to Preston and said, “Th-this shit gets worse every y-year, hey? I can’t believe th-they serve th-this to us.”

  The voice which came from Dale’s body made Séraphin choke on a mouthful of rice and butternut. If the voice had shown up at the end of a technicolor cartoon and said “Th-that’s all, f-folks!” Séraphin would have sat and waited for the next episode of Merrie Melodies to begin. He tried to stifle his guffaws. The others hid theirs in poorly contrived sneezes or coughs. Michael made a show of ducking under the table to retrieve one of the fortuitously dropped serviettes. Only Preston’s face remained impassive. His eyes, though, betrayed his otherwise stoic demeanour.

  Dale’s eyes were pools of anger as he focused on Séraphin.

  “S-something f-funny, f-fresher?”

  “No.” Séraphin cough-laughed. “Nothing at all.” He put his fork down and tried to keep his shoulders from heaving.

  “S-sure?”

  “Very,” said Séraphin. He made eye contact with Tendai, which was a mistake because the laughter bulldozed past his restraint. Dale’s eyes narrowed some more. Séraphin really tried to compose his face. He managed to choke out another apology. “I’m sorry. It’s nothing.”

  “I-if it’s n-nothing th-then maybe y-you can sh-shut the f-fuck up.” The joke was over. Séraphin marshalled his humour and tried to return to eating again. “W-w-what are y-y-you doing h-h-here anyway? Th-this is a s-senior table. Leave.”

  Séraphin had been on the verge of offering Dale a second apology but the commanding tone that had crept into Dale’s voice stopped him. Making a show of lifting his tray and looking at the wood beneath it, he said, “You’re right. This is an old table. What would you like me to do with that bit of information?”

  Tendai, Michael, Jean-Paul, and Preston looked from Dale to Séraphin. But then Preston said, “Yoh! Dale, ek sal nie los nie.”

  Séraphin smiled.

  “No. F-fresher—” Dale began before Séraphin cut him off.

  “Séraphin.”

  “What?”

  “My name is Séraphin.”

  “R-right. Y-you need t-t-to move t-t-to another t-table. W-w-what about th-that one?” Everyone looked at the table at which Dale was pointing. It was behind Séraphin, not too far from where he was sitting, and it was populated by first-year students. “I-i-it’s the r-r-ight p-p-place for y-y-you, S-s-sarafina.”

  Tendai, Michael, John-Paul, and Preston looked at their plates. Séraphin nodded politely at Dale and said, “Sure. No problem.” He picked up his tray and walked off to the table Dale had designated. He put down his tray and greeted all of the other boys. “Gents,” he said. “Please watch this for me.” Then he strolled back to Dale’s table. He tapped the sitting bulk on the shoulder. Dale turned around and looked up at him. Séraphin said, “Yeah, you’re going to have to apologise for that.”

  “F-for w-w-what?” Dale asked. He stood up, his rising mass a natural attention-grabber.

  “What you said, it was quite unsavoury.” Séraphin sucked at his mouth to emphasise the sour taste.

  “S-so?”

  “So, you’ll have to apologise.”

  “I – it doesn’t w-w-w-work like th-that h-h-here.”

  “It does where I come from,” Séraphin said calmly.

  “And w-w-w-w-where is th-th-that, f-f-f-fresher?”

  “Windhoek,” said Séraphin.

  Pause.

  Now Windhoek does not mean much to a rugby jock from Pietermaritzburg where the high school fees cost more than a university degree. Windhoek, at best, is a place on a map in a country which was nearly a province of South Africa. What people forget, oftentimes, is that Namibians never negotiated a peace. They picked up arms and fought. The spirit of struggle lingers in the soil and it can infect patriots and immigrants alike. In Windhoek, despite the nine cultural groups, there are only two types of blacks: Milo blacks and Nesquik blacks. It might be questioned what the price of these two hot chocolate drinks have to do with this confrontation happening in the Sobukwe dining hall at Remms in Cape Town but it will make sense in a bit.

  Nesquik, with its yellow branding, and its smiling and happy rabbit, in a sample year, like when Séraphin is in the fifth grade at his convent school, costs twenty Namibian dollars and fifty cents. Milo, with its green cover and smiling black teenage soccer player costs fifteen Namibian dollars and fifty cents. The five-dollar difference means that only a certain type of black person can buy Nesquik. The kind that lives in Klein Windhoek, Olympia, Eros, or any of the other suburbs which, today, are patrolled by neighbourhood watch volunteers and contracted armed response personnel. This type of blackness has hot chocolate in the way it is meant to be had. With warm, full-cream milk, and generous spoonfuls of the brown powder scooped into a mug. The kinds of children who drink Milo come from Dorado Park, Katutura, Khomasdal, Windhoek-North, and lower Windhoek-West. They make their hot chocolate by boiling water, spooning in just enough of the coveted chocolate powder to stain the water brown, then dash some milk into it. These children only have hot chocolate on special days, like the last Friday of the month when salaries have been paid. Nesquik blacks have hot chocolate whenever they damn well please.

  The thing to bear in mind, though, is not the hot chocolate. It is where the Nesquik and Milo blacks live. The neighbourhoods dictate the availability of distractions. So, for example, five years after Guillome and Therése move to Windhoek, they live in lower Windhoek-West, where the margins between Khomasdal and Dorado Park blur, where boys play street soccer in worn out Converse sneakers or barefoot in the absence of suitable hand-me-downs. The soccer balls they play with are made from plastic shopping bags wrapped into tight, reinforced knots. One has to jump down several rungs of privilege to comprehend the hardness of heels that can sprint on tarred roads without bleeding and the toughness of feet that can hit a fully inflated soccer ball with enough force to curl it into the top corner of a makeshift goalpost made by an open gate.

  Nesquik blacks, a couple of suburbs away, wear new, stylish, slick, and envy-inciting Adidas, Reebok, and Nike boots. They also wear shin pads because their delicate tibia bones have not been calcified and toughened by vengeful tackles. Nesquik blacks head home to seek solace in the first-generation Playstation when they lose a soccer match. Milo blacks have no such comforts. The cheap Chinese console which comes with orange game cartridges promising nine-thousand-nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine-games-in-one often do not work despite spit-laden blowing on the microchip boards of the orange cartridges. They are the ones who visit the city’s only arcade with enough money to buy one game token, carefully considering which machine to play. They are the ones who progress through Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat without losing a single fight, pressing buttons and jogging the lollipop joystick, eyes glued to the screen, their chosen character jumping over power attacks, and deflecting the fifteen-hit combos that would send a Nesquik black looking for another game to play. When they lose a game the day is done. All they can do is watch the Nesquik blacks push more and m
ore tokens into other machines with reckless abandon. Milo blacks are tough and wiry. They never, ever back down. They take offence easily, and to insult one, even by doing something as accidental as stepping on their sneakers – or mispronouncing a name – means only one thing: fight.

  Ek sal nie los nie!

  The taunt to let some offended party know there is only one way to reclaim their honour.

  Ek sal nie los nie!

  Bloody noses, scratched cheeks, and choke marks on necks are the natural follow-ups to this phrase.

  Ek sal nie los nie!

  Séraphin, even though he will later ascend into the realms of Nesquik blackness when Guillome secures his promotion, attending St. Luke’s, drinking juice made from expensive concentrate, is of Milo black stock. And when one is of this stock, with a fight being imminent, only one thing is important: strike first and fast.

  Séraphin slapped Dale.

  Hard.

  Quick.

  Open palm.

  The rap was loud and unexpected. By Dale, by everyone. As Dale’s head swung back around to face his tormenter Séraphin slapped him again.

  Harder. And in the same spot. Then, instinctively, he stepped backwards.

  After the second thunderclap reverberated through the room Michael, John, and Preston jumped up to restrain Dale, who tried to swing a fist at Séraphin but found him just out of reach. He could not even swear, his stutter had become too severe. Tendai laid hands on Séraphin, who allowed himself to be dragged backwards and away from what he knew would have been the scene of a bloody, one-sided pummelling had Dale been permitted to make contact with him. As Dale was dragged from the dining room, a bundle of angry and defeated grunts, Séraphin’s mind had already moved onto the possible consequences of his actions. Tendai told Séraphin not to leave the dining room. The warden would have to be notified of the incident. Séraphin returned to his table and finished his meal. The rest of the table gave him the unvoiced respect given to the righteously violent.