by Rémy Ngamije
The smoking laws which prohibit chimneying indoors have yet to be effected so the dance floor is smoky; the strong smell of marijuana wafts from a corner of the club but nobody is perturbed by it. The rest of the evening is a haze of grinding and nibbled necks which ends with the club turning on the bright lights, sending the cocks and roaches scurrying for privacy, somewhere around three o’clock in the morning. Adewale manages to extricate himself from his tongue-twister, haul Richard away from the girl whose hands have migrated from his neck and managed to find that crucial crease in his pants, and prise Yasseen out of the woman’s embrace. Godwin is easier to inveigle away from his charmer because he has reached a pliable stage of drunkenness. Saving Séraphin is a bit harder. The tangle of arms and legs squeezed into Marvel’s furthest corner is of Gordian intricacy and barely contained indecency. With care Richard and Yasseen succeed in separating Séraphin from the entanglement. Outside the club, the friends take deep gulps of semi-fresh air.
“Ja, no,” says Richard after a while. “What happened in there?”
“Cape Town happened,” says Adewale. “We need to get home, though. If anyone sees a cab, stop it.”
Séraphin says he has a number and phones Idriss who says, “I will be there soon, my brother.”
While they wait, Marvel drains the last of its effluence. Idriss arrives in his Toyota Condor just as Séraphin’s enchantress exits the club, tracked by some of her friends. Adewale and Richard bundle Godwin into the back seat. Yasseen takes the front seat. While the car idles, the enchantress walks up to Séraphin. “My name’s Angelique, by the way,” she says. The idling car revs a bit. “Let me get your number, maybe we can do something, sometime.”
With the numbers exchanged Séraphin shoehorns himself into a seat. The ride back to Remms is spent sharing particular pieces of the evening’s events together to complete the debauchery puzzle. The finished masterpiece leaves Idriss shaking his head. He says, “You boys are a problem. Your parents are working hard and all you do is come to chase women.” They laugh at the chastisement and give Idriss a generous tip when he drops them off at Biko House.
“Man, I love Cape Town,” says Séraphin as they trudge towards their rooms.
The next morning, only Séraphin manages to wake up for breakfast. His phone vibrates as he sits down in the dining hall.
An_G_Liq_Liq—Sans_Séraph: Hey. I had a good time last night. This is Angie by the way.
Sans_Seraph: Hi. I had fun too.
An_G_Liq: I could tell.
Sans_Seraph: Sorry about that. I was embarrassed.
An_G_Liq: Don’t be. I like junk against my trunk. How’re you this morning?
Sans_Seraph: Having breakfast now. My orientation programme only starts later.
An_G_Liq: Orientation? Are you a student? Where?
Sans_Seraph: Yes. Remms.
An_G_Liq: Rich boy.
Sans_Seraph: Just lucky when it mattered most.
An_G_Liq: And blessed where it counts too.
Sans_Seraph: What?
An_G_Liq: Never mind.
Sans_Seraph: What do you do?
An_G_Liq: I’m in marketing. When does this orientation programme start?
Sans_Seraph: Just before lunch. Cable car ride up Table Mountain, then hiking up Lion’s Head. In the evening there’ll be a concert on the Remms Lawns. There’s a band called Goldfish performing.
An_G_Liq: What’re you getting up to before the outings?
Sans_Seraph: Not much.
An_G_Liq: Change that to,“You, maybe” and see what happens.
The digital conversation suddenly seems so loud Séraphin involuntarily hides his phone under the table for fear everyone in the dining hall will hear it.
“It’s a trick,” says a Séraphin sitting down next to him. He reaches for Séraphin’s bowl of oats and starts tucking into it.
“It has to be,” says another. He sips on Séraphin’s glass of orange juice. “You’re being punked.”
“What if he isn’t?” asks a third. “He was practically in her oesophagus last night.”
“Does anyone remember what she looked like?” asks the first.
“Long hair with curls,” says Séraphin. “Average height, lot of curves.”
“Boob size somewhere in the first few letters of the alphabet,” says the second. “Are we boob or butt people, by the way?”
“We like the soul between the two,” says Séraphin hopefully.
“Nigga! Cut that shit out before you make poor life choices,” the second retorts. “Anyway, what’re you going to say to her now? I call bullshit, she’s probably laughing at you with her girlfriends, telling how eager and wet behind the ears you are.”
“How would she know?” Séraphin asks.
“Bro, we saw you last night,” replies the second. “Your kissing game is zero and nada. I felt embarrassed for you and sorry for her.”
“She still stuck it out,” says the third. He reaches for Séraphin’s yoghurt. “Which means she must have liked something. I say play along. You’ve got nothing to lose.”
Séraphin looks to the third, who nods.
Sans_Seraph—An_G_Liq: You…Maybe?
“Good on you, Séraphin,” says the first. “Many years from now we’ll look back on this moment and realise this is where it all went south.”
“What’s she saying?” asks the third.
“Nothing,” says Séraphin.
“Told you,” says the first. “You really think things like these work out like in the films or the songs? Seriously, nothing’s going to hap—”
An_G_Liq—Sans_Seraph: Not maybe. Definitely.
“Whoa!” says the second.
“Told you,” says the third.
An_G_Liq—Sans_Seraph: Where d’you stay?
“Is this chick serious?” asks the first.
“Seems pretty serious to me,” says the third. “Answer her.”
“This isn’t weird at all, is it?” asks Séraphin. “Not even just a little bit?”
“It’s weird as heck, bro,” says the third. “But this is too good to pass up. This could be Jasmyn 2.0.”
“No,” says the first. “Technically speaking it would have to be Jasmyn 1.5. The last one never finished loading. Anyway, tell her.”
Sans_Seraph—An_G_Liq: I’m in Biko House, at Remms.
An_G_Liq: I know it. See you in twenty-ish minutes.
“No fucking way,” says the first. “That’s how things work down here?”
“Damn,” says the second.
“Atta boy,” says the third.
“Wait, what happens now?” asks Séraphin.
They all look at each other. “To be honest,” says the first, “I didn’t expect anything to happen.”
“Well, something is,” says the third. “And since you’re asking, I’d start with a shower and then fix up the room.”
The quickest shower in the history of the world is followed by an even faster room clean-up. The room has the standard fare of writing desk, single bed, built-in cupboards, and a wash-basin – probably peed in – albeit being a bit newer. There is little in the way of decor. Séraphin’s Silver Surfer poster is on one wall. Galactus’s herald has cosmic rays blasting every which way from his eyes, his abs framed in intergalactic perfection.
“This room screams virgin,” says the first Séraphin.
“Don’t worry about it,” says the third, looking at the room. “Neatness is the best kind of decoration.” He walks to Séraphin and puts his hands on his shoulders. “Now, what’re we doing for protection? Are we using the cheap government shit in the bathrooms or do you have better stock?”
“Fuck,” exclaims Séraphin.
“You just might,” says the third. “But you aren’t doing it without protection.”
“I don’t have any others.”
“Then let’s hope the South African government has your back. But replace that shit next time – it’s rape if it isn’t Durex.”
The first Séraphin plonks
himself on the bed. “My money’s on her not showing—”
Séraphin in Room 7, you have a guest at reception! Séraphin in Room 7, please come and fetch your guest at reception!
“That wasn’t twenty minutes,” says the second Séraphin as the floor’s PA system clicks off.
“Even better,” says the third. “A girl who comes on time is a rare thing indeed.”
It was imperative for all guests in Biko House to be announced over the intercom. This system was designed for security measures so that people would not sign into the residence and then proceed to walk around the building looking for unlocked rooms to pilfer. The system also had another use: it served as an early warning system for cheating boyfriends.
If one of Mark’s rugby teammates happened to be at reception he would simply be told to come and fetch him from the front desk.
“Mark, your boy is at reception!”
But if Mark invited Mary to his room the receptionist would announce that Mark had to come and fetch his guest. Then, if Mark’s girlfriend, Jane, decided to pay Mark a casual visit – without warning – then the receptionist, if he happened to know the play, would ask Mark to come and fetch his visitor. Mark would then have to find a place to conceal Mary. This was never a problem because Bikoans protected their own. Doors would be opened and the fugitive Mary would be harboured for as long as was necessary. It was for good reason, therefore, that the receptionists, who were all senior students, were not trifled with.
The receptionist and Angie are chatting when Séraphin walks up. Angie says something funny-ish because he laughs in the way boys do when beautiful girls are not funny, like he has a front row seat at a Dave Chappelle gig. Séraphin’s appearance, the hug Angie gives him, the cool way she slides her hand in his almost warrants the back-scalding look of envy Séraphin can feel on his shoulders as they walk away.
A fumble of keys later they are in Séraphin’s room. Angie kicks off her tropical coloured Havaianas, shakes out her hair, and goes to lie on the bed, sighing like she just eased herself onto the most comfortable futon in the world, ready to hear all of the Arabian Nights retold. She turns to Séraphin coquettishly and says, “This room needs decorations.”
Séraphin winces. “I’m working on it.”
“Don’t stress about it,” Angie replies. “You have me now.”
The laugh that squirrels out of Séraphin is a private quirk which will be heard on rarer and rarer occasions in the future. Seven ha-has, two he-hes – a skittish sound, an awkward sound. It enters the room like an unwelcome aunt, unannounced, its visit unable to be cut short. It has to be suffered by all from its start to its miserable end.
“You’re nervous,” Angie says. The laugh is about to resurface but Séraphin stifles it. “Come and lie down.”
The smart thing for Séraphin to do is obey, which he does. The single bed has just enough space for them to lie down next to each other. They look as uncomfortable as two chicken pieces squeezed into a small takeaway box.
“You need to relax,” says Angie. She props herself on her elbow and looks at him. Then she places her hand on his chest. “Unless, of course, you don’t want to be doing this.”
“What is this exactly?” asks Séraphin.
“This,” she says and kisses him.
How quickly Angie and Séraphin’s clothes come off belies the fact only about six hours have passed since their encounter. Séraphin can smell the club’s cigarette smoke in her hair. The shift towards nudity is an individual affair but the final run-in to intercourse is a collaborative effort between the inexperienced novice and the patient guide. It is as clunky as the planning of the D-Day landings, and after they pause so that Séraphin can slip on a condom – inevitability does not mean irresponsibility – they are so tightly pressed together it looks like they will blur at the margins of contact, erasing, once and for all, the boxes South Africa uses to administrate itself. Then comes the familiar tingle in the toes and breathless clutching and clawing, and then, with gentle mastery, Angie finishes what Jasmyn started a year ago.
The pull of history is strong, and Séraphin has to throw a hasty look at the door to make sure nobody walks in.
“It was all going well until I decided to blow on her vagina,” said Séraphin.
“Why on earth did you do that?” Silmary asked. “Wait. Don’t say it.” She cupped her face in her hands. “Blowjob!”
“Blowjob,” Séraphin confirmed.
There were some tee-hees from the table’s other occupants. The dramatic retelling was loud enough to make it impolite not to listen to it.
“She just laughed at me,” Séraphin replied. “Then she asked me if I’d actually like to know how to do it. I had to be shown the business end of things – stop laughing – someone had to do it. She taught me so many, many things.”
“We didn’t see him for three days,” said Adewale.
“Three? What did you guys eat?” asked Silmary. She parried away the question quickly. “No, actually, don’t tell me.”
“Best not to ask,” Yasseen said.
“Lust,” Séraphin said, “has all of the basic nutrients you need.”
“We knocked on his door but we’d never get a reply,” Godwin said. “On the second day we heard a moan, so we knew at least one person was alive in the room. He completely missed orientation.”
“I was being orientated, guys,” said Séraphin. “Plus, the way I saw it, Table Mountain wasn’t going anywhere.”
“Anyway,” Richard said, “this girl would come over every Friday and only leave late on Sunday evenings. Dude would show up at breakfast on Monday drained of life.”
“So that’s The Sauce,” said Silmary.
Godwin shook his head. “No, that’s just the physical part of it all. The emotional part is worse.”
“You don’t know Angie,” said Adewale. “She was really good looking. There was no reason for her to be with him. We still don’t know what juju he was putting on her. And she was older. What was it? Four years on you?”
“Yep. I was her slave, man,” Séraphin replied, shaking his head slightly. “If she’d called me in the middle of the day from the other side of Cape Town and told me she was hungry I’d probably have taken all the taxis and buses in the city to bring her a sandwich.”
“So, it’s all fun and games, right,” Godwin said, “until Angie decided she would be faithful to her boyfriend.”
“What?” Silmary looked at the High Lords. They were enjoying seeing her reactions to the tale.
“She had a boyfriend the entire time,” Séraphin said.
“And you knew?”
“I remember hearing the word but not really hearing it,” Séraphin said.
“That was The Sauce working,” said Adewale.
“I heard her use the word ‘boyfriend’ in an early conversation we had. And I did hear her tell me about how long they were together and blah blah blah and how they were going through a rough patch and blah blah blah. It was like I was hearing her underwater.”
“Beauty is a special kind of trauma,” Bianca said. “Guys’ll block out the strangest things for pretty girls.”
“Anyway, shit started getting fucked up because she’d ghost for a week, and then, poof, reappear the next. Then we’d vanish into my room for days. Then she’d evaporate again. Give me some shit about working things through with her boyfriend and blah blah blah and I still like you Séraphin but blah blah blah.”
“He’s giving you the short version of a really long story,” Richard said. “He was temperamental as fuck. One day he’d be happy, and we’d know they’d made plans to see each other. Then after the weekend he’d be pissed off. And that’s how we’d know Angie was going back to her boyfriend in the week. Dude was a mess.”
“Snapping at us all the time,” Yasseen said. “Swearing at us whenever we told him to press the eject button. We nearly stopped being friends.”
“Every time she’d come over, “ Séraphin said, “I’d have
a whole speech prepared about how it would be the last time. About how fucked up the whole situation was. That she had to choose between me and her boyfriend. She’d say some shit about needing time so sincerely I’d believe I’d be chosen.”
“Chosen – with a capital C,” said James.
“With a capital C, fam!” Séraphin said ruefully. “Gold-star kind of shit. Before I knew it, she’d be kissing me and that’d be my resolve shot to shit. Whenever she came over I felt bad, and when she left I felt worse.”
“The worst days were when she’d say she was going to come over and then she’d cancel,” Yasseen said.
“Those were deep days,” Godwin said. “He was the worst human being then.”
“Tellin’ you, man, pretty girls and calendars don’t go together,” Séraphin said. “The way you look forward to seeing them and hanging out and then, ‘Hey, so sorry to cancel but blah blah blah hope you aren’t mad at me let’s do this again soon blah blah blah.’ Everything becomes bleak.”
“Angie-free weekends were like looking after a fiend with withdrawal. It got so bad we’d even hope she wouldn’t cancel, as fucked up as the situation was. Imagine. The oan was too Sauced.”
“Then I started skipping school because I was depressed,” Séraphin said. “I was writing love letters in SMSes. Making her playlists and shit”.
“He made her so many,” Richard said.
“We’re talking Lifehouse, The Calling, LeAnn Rimes, Westlife kind of playlists,” James said. “The man was hurting.”
“I was in deep,” Séraphin said, “I could see Darth Fucking Boyfriend – that’s what we called him – dying in painful ways, Angie mourning for a while, then eventually moving on with her life, moving on with me. I’ve never wished for anyone’s death, but DFB could’ve died and I’d have brought a marching band to his funeral. Get this, so one time we’re lying in bed. I’ve just given this girl the work of life. And she starts talking about DFB. How cool he is, how her mother likes him, all of the little light-skinned babies they would have, with straight hair and shit—”
“He was white?” asked Silmary.
“Indeed. Séraphin came to supper pissed off that night,” said James. “When he told us what she’d said we told him it was time to get out. I’ve never heard someone be that creative with swear words before. The kindest thing we were called were enemies of progress. Séraphin was gone, man.”
