The Eternal Audience of One

by Rémy Ngamije

  As one, the class made a dash for the chairs. The bigger boys pushed their way to chairs and sat upon their thrones with pride. They pointed at those without one and laughed.

  “No! That is not how we are going to do it here,” said Miss Mutumanu. “Get off the chairs! Off! Thank you. As I was saying, there are not enough chairs and desks so we shall decide who gets them in one way.” The students looked at each other. “Tests,” she said. “Every Friday we shall have tests. On Monday I will bring back the tests. I will read out the marks. You can see the tables have numbers on them: one to twenty-five. The first student, the one with the best marks, will sit where? At Chair Number One. The second student will sit at Chair Number Two. The third one will sit at Chair Number Three, and that is how we shall do it until Chair Number Twenty-Five, which is the last chair. What do you think happens to everyone else who does not get a chair?” Her eyes raked the silent faces and settled on the Indian girl whose sliver of hand was raised.

  “They sit on the floor,” Gina Patel replied.

  “That is correct. Everyone who does not get a chair will sit on the floor. Because there are not enough chairs in this class,” said Miss Mutumanu. “There are not enough chairs in life.”

  Miss Mutumanu asked her charges to sit on the floor that first week before the first test was written. Séraphin found himself surrounded by boys and girls of indeterminate age. In his pre-primary, just down the street from Guillome and Therése’s Parklands home, he learned how to speak Swahili, and write his letters and his numbers. He struggled to fit in with the rest of the children. The teacher told Guillome and Therése, in a roundabout way, that perhaps Séraphin had been through too much recently. “You know, with the thing that is happening in, he-he, Rwanda right now, perhaps it would be best for him to recover,” she said.

  Guillome shook his head. “Séraphin will study, madam. He will be fine.”

  There was no time for a break. Their lives needed to continue as soon and as normally as possible. School was the most important priority after securing accommodation and steady work. Guillome worked behind the counter of a pharmacy in Parklands, where they were also lucky to find a flat large enough for them. Therése could not find work and was forced to stay at home with Yves and Éric while Séraphin started school.

  Mrs Mutumanu’s classroom floor was cold and hard. Séraphin found it hard to write in his book with nothing to press on. Everyone against the wall at least had something to lean on. Kneeling and writing also hurt after a while. For a week he sat on the floor, holding pencils like someone learning how to use chopsticks for the first time. His As, Bs, Cs, and rickety 1s and 2s disrespected the territorial integrity of the thick feint lines of his writing book. That week’s test was the alphabet and writing all of the numbers from one to twenty. The following Monday, when the test marks were read out, the hierarchy of the class was established. Gina Patel was at the top of the class.

  Chair Number One.

  Séraphin was on the floor. Things had gone badly for him at the letter R. What came next? Was it T or V or S? He could not remember. Then at number 17 he wrote 81 instead of 18. On the floor, looking up at all of the students with a seat and a table, the injustice of it all made him seethe. He hid his face between his knees and arms so the rest of the class could not see him cry. If they did they would probably call him what they’d called him on the playground the week before when he’d tried to join their soccer game: wakimbizi.

  One of the students in standard three had walked up to him and asked him if he was from Rwanda. When he said he was, Séraphin was told he was a refugee. He was pushed to the sidelines. No team would pick him. Everyone knew refugees were sick and dirty. At home he asked Therése what being a refugee meant and she burst out crying. He was asking questions she could not answer herself. Guillome told him it meant nothing and to ignore it. “Is this what they are calling you at school?” he asked. “Do not worry. Just beat them in school. Show them.”

  He was determined to show them all. In the third week of school he won Chair Number Twenty-Five after completing his letters and writing the school’s name, naming Kenya’s capital city, and writing the president’s name. Gina Patel was still in Chair Number One.

  Séraphin was quickly removed from his seat in the fifth week. Colours were a difficult test. Back on the floor he watched Gina Patel glide to her seat. She was the star of the class, respected and feared, exempted from any classroom chores.

  In the seventh week, when household items were being tested Séraphin climbed to Chair Number Fifteen, away from the hot seats in the high twenties. It was a good climb and the teacher was proud of his performance. The wakimbizi was showing them.

  Gina Patel was still in Chair Number One. The boy in Chair Number Two, Hasham, had tried his best to supplant Gina Patel but was unsuccessful. Séraphin could see them at the front of the class sitting next to each other, sharing pencils, crayons, and the most precious of commodities fuels: smiles. Gina Patel’s cheeks dimpled when she smiled. Séraphin decided if anyone was going to be seen smiling with Gina Patel it would be him. He had to close the gap.

  On the Monday of the ninth week he secured Chair Number Eleven. Progress, but not perfection. For Friday’s test, the biggest one yet, he needed to memorise colours, household items, countries, numbers, food, and simple addition.

  The following Monday, seat names were called out as they usually were, from twenty-five to one. Ezra, Baloyi, Dinesh, Jacob, Haalimah, Sarah, Magdalena, Allan, John, Daniel, Jomo, Ruth, Margaret, all the way up to the high teens. Not hearing his name, Séraphin felt his eyes take on water. If he slipped back to the floor mean taunting awaited him. Miss Mutumanu continued to read through the list of boys and girls who eagerly took their seats in the pecking order. The swell of tears in his eyes flooded his cheeks. “Chair Number Three is Hasham Mohammadi. Chair Number Two is Gina Patel,” said Miss Mutumanu. Shock snatched the sound from the classroom. The queen was dead. “Chair Number One is Séraphin Turihamwe!”

  Séraphin wiped his tears from his eyes and walked to the front of the class.

  The wakimbizi had shown them all.

  The rest of the class did not applaud like they usually did for the owner of Chair Number One. This was a most evil usurpation of power. As he eased himself into Chair Number One he turned to Gina Patel, ready to be welcomed into her smiling presence. He was met with a sulky stare. Her mouth quivered from the defeat. He had expected a different welcome.

  It was lonely at the top. Gina Patel hated him. Hasham hated him. Everyone all the way down to Chair Number Twenty-Five hated him. His rise to the top was impolite, too many steps had been skipped along the way. Chair Number One was all consuming. It demanded constant attention and fending off the twin assaults of Gina Patel and Hasham who, as the term moved from its start to its end, intensified their efforts to depose him. Their efforts were in vain. The two would come within one mark or two behind Séraphin, only to find their prey bounding away, showing his father and mother a flawless handwriting assignment or a hundred per cent spelling test mark.

  At least he was not called a refugee anymore.

  When Séraphin told the story of his ascension from the floor to Chair Number One, the High Lords and Silmary were at Tara’s. Tara shook her head in despair. From what Séraphin could gather Tara had attended one of those schools where common colds, migraines, and parents divorcing were considered suitable reasons for staying away from school. Already, from the conversation, he heard she had served two reluctant tours of Europe, returning only with scars of poor service for memories. She was scheduled to do another one with her family and she was not excited for it. “My father’s obsessed with Europe,” she said. “I wish he knew there were other countries in the world. If I see London or Paris or Barcelona again I’ll die.”

  “Imagine,” said Bianca to Séraphin, “the day when excess travel becomes the leading cause of death. Must be nice.” Séraphin asked Tara what her father did for a living.

&n
bsp; “Honestly,” she replied, “I don’t know. I know he does a lot of things with shipping and logistics.”

  Séraphin’s mother had told him when he asked for new basketball shoes in his tenth grade that children who did not know how their parents made their money were more likely to spend it without thinking twice. Tara was proving her right. She complained about the London traffic and how hot it was in Mallorca. She said the Mona Lisa was unimpressive. “I had to do it because Daddy was dying to see it. I don’t get it. It really isn’t a big deal.”

  BeeEffGee—Sans_Seraph: Are you hearing these first world problems?

  Sans_Seraph: Hearing them and crying inside, Bee.

  BeeEffGee: This fuckery is going to make me say something unpleasant.

  Sans_Seraph: Not if Godwin beats you to it.

  Tara’s three-bedroomed apartment in Green Point hogged the sea view, leaving little for its neighbours. The balcony where they were sitting was decorated with fairy lights and pot plants. The deck sofas were constructed out of wooden pallets stained a dark brown and they were crowded with scatter cushions. The balcony was suffused with gentle jazz music playing through the outdoor sound system. Tara manipulated the playlist from her iPad, tastefully queuing Anson Weeks, Glenn Miller, and Cole Porter. Séraphin was reluctantly impressed. He thought she might force them to listen to cheerless indie music.

  The High Lords’ presence in Tara’s apartment had been occasioned by an accidental meeting between Tara and Silmary earlier in the evening at First Thursdays.

  KimJohnUN—HiLos_Of_E: What’s that?

  KentTouchThis: It’s this walking tour of the city centre held on the first Thursday of each month. The galleries, cafés, and craft stores in the city centre open later and there’s food and live music at some places too. We should do it.

  BeeEffGee: So, basically, it’s white people walking around Cape Town telling themselves they’re being cultured; looking at squiggles on walls and calling it art; eating gourmet burgers that are heavy on the meaning of life but kinda light on the R70 worth of meat you’re paying for. Did I hear you correctly?

  KentTouchThis: It isn’t just white people.

  BeeEffGee: And better blacks then. And Coloureds who’re better than the better blacks. Because, you know, hierarchies.

  KentTouchThis: Why must it always be about race with you?

  BeeEffGee: Because 1652.

  AddyWale: Hahahaha.

  RichDick: Eish!

  KentTouchThis: This is going to go where all of these discussions go. Nowhere. Anyway, I spoke to Silmary and she’s keen.

  Sans_Seraph: I’m in.

  BeeEffGee: Of course you are.

  KentTouchThis: Everyone else?

  GodForTheWin: How much is it?

  KentTouchThis: It’s free.

  GodForTheWin: Which means we’re going to wind up spending money out of our ass cracks.

  KimJohnUN: Basically.

  BeeEffGee: Fuck, so we’re actually going to do this?

  RichDick: Can’t be the worst thing in the world.

  BeeEffGee: I apologise in advance for what I might say.

  Sans_Seraph: Didn’t your mother tell you that if you don’t have something nice to say you should keep quiet?

  BeeEffGee: Where’s the fun in that?

  When the High Lords descended upon the city bowl Bianca became what they called ungovernable. She invaded the first art gallery with loud whispers complaining about the truancy of free finger food and drinks. Godwin agreed with her, also at barely whispered volume, that art without alcohol was not art at all. The two returned each and every stare they attracted without an eyelid so much as flickering. Andrew, embarrassed, marched all of them out. At the second gallery, a rectangular room, they made courageous attempts at enjoying the framed sketches on the wall.

  “I don’t understand anything in this room,” said Séraphin. “Which means it must be art. Or women.” The statement drew a couple of chuckles from the room, Silmary included. Andrew peered harder at the canvas in front of him, trying to immerse himself in the paintbrush scratches and bruises. After a few minutes of sulking at it he was forced to follow his friends’ insistent whispering out of the gallery.

  “I can’t take you guys anywhere,” he said.

  “Come on, Drew,” Séraphin said, “there was nothing in that gallery. Just a lot of white space and Helvetica.”

  The subversion bug spread. Even Silmary caught it. At a food truck which sold gourmet burgers she pulled her bun apart and looked at the patty inside. She asked if the rest of the meat patty was like the emperor’s new clothes. “Am I missing something here?” she asked.

  The rosy-cheeked chef said, “It looks small but it has a lot of flavour. And it’s organic.”

  “Fuck this organic shit,” said Bianca. “I need to find me some radioactive chips met spice en asyn.”

  “Go and find them then,” Andrew snapped, “but stop being a bitch about everything.”

  “That’s not how this thing works, Andrew. Remember when we went to watch the Ajax and Santos soccer game at the Athlone Stadium and you spent all the time bitching and whining and we didn’t say anything? This is payback.”

  “You’re bringing shit from a year ago?” asked Andrew.

  “Should I go back further?” asked Bianca. “Which whitewashed event did you not swoon over? And how much complaining did you do for anything that was slightly out of your comfort zone?”

  “Look, we’re out here,” James said. “Let’s just see what else is out here. If there’s nothing else, we’ll head home.”

  They resumed walking with Andrew and Adewale at the front. Richard, Godwin, and James shadowed Bianca, more to contain her volatility than to keep her company. Séraphin and Silmary brought up the rear.

  “How’s the English?” he asked.

  “The poetry courses suck,” she said. “Somewhere between Honours and this current section it became challenging. I don’t know why I took this course.”

  “That’s why I dropped poetry in my second year,” Séraphin said. “I have a better chance of being Pablo Escobar than being Pablo Neruda. Poets and drug dealers come to the same unfortunate ends. But the bit in the middle is where drug dealers are winning. At least people buy and consume their shit.”

  “You and drug dealers.” Silmary laughed. “Not a fan of poetry then?”

  “I like all of the popular poets but the more obscure ones are hard. I approach poetry like other people’s dogs. With great caution.”

  “Hmm.”

  Séraphin tried to decipher the nature of Silmary’s “hmm”. From his experience there were three types. The first one was enquiring. The second one expressed indifference. The third was amusement. He hoped there was a fourth one which meant she wanted to carry on with the conversation.

  “Is Bianca your ex-girlfriend?” Silmary asked.

  “What?” Séraphin was surprised. “No, she’s not.”

  “Okay.”

  “What makes you ask?”

  “I couldn’t figure out what you were to each other. First I thought you were dating but when I asked Andrew he said you weren’t. Then I thought maybe you were former somethings.”

  “She would laugh if she heard you say that,” he said. “Bee’s a friend. Yaz and I met her in law school. She’s a hottie so obviously we kept her around. For our rep. She’s into girls which means all the guys are into her too.”

  “Weird how that happens,” she said.

  “A toy that bores you is more interesting when your brother starts playing with it,” Séraphin said sagely.

  In Shortmarket Street it was dark. There was an open-air party where a disc jockey in a bowler hat and thick black spectacles bobbed his head while he queued up the next song. An appreciative cheer went up from the crowd who sang along to Skee-Lo’s “I Wish”.

  That was where they met Tara and her friends, Nikita, Jana, Jess, Chris, Troy, Ethan, Declan, Byron, and Bjorn. Séraphin could not tell which was Byron and w
hich was Bjorn because they wore similar red and black lumberjack shirts and black skinny jeans. Nikita and Jana, Séraphin decided, were pretty by the law of averages, and Jess, who might have been Chinese or Korean, was quite the looker. The others looked like what Bianca would call generic white boys, and would, according to her, probably be differentiated by the number of ignorant things they said. Her scale ran from Hendrik Verwoed to Helen Zille. The two groups stood apart like two armies about to confront each other on a battlefield while Tara and Silmary went forward to discuss terms of potential surrender.

  “I’m so bored with this,” said Tara. “It’s just like last week. We’re headed to my place, Sil. You should come through. Bring your friends.”

  “Sure, we’ll see where we wind up,” said Silmary. When it became darker yet, and cooler, the First Thursday traffic ebbed. She suggested Tara’s. If it was boring, they could always leave.

  They had found Tara and her friends spooning salads and hummus onto plates, with glasses of red and white wine on the tables. From the moment they walked in Bianca said there was something she did not quite like about Tara. “I swear she’s going to call me babes or love or something,” she told Séraphin, “and that’ll be it for me. I think I’m done with white people for today.”

  “I’ll get you a Wembley curry and a gatsby on the way home to make up for this poor outing, Bee.”

  “You know my heart too well, Séra. Also, fuck you.”

  “You wish. But just know you’d be my size if you weren’t hellbent on snatching women’s hearts all over the city.”

  “Someone’s got to keep you company in hell, Séraphin.”

  Bjorn and/or Byron were in advertising. The one who was most likely Bjorn was a copywriter and the other, who by process of elimination would be Byron, was an art director. Everything they said was a case study of a commercial they had seen or a reference to an ad they had worked on recently. Andrew was in deep conversation with them, interested beyond interest with every one-liner they uttered. Declan and Chris were fascinated by single-speed bicycles in the exact way James and Richard, who sat nearest to them, were not. “They’re a purer ride,” said Declan while Chris nodded. “I think they’re truer to the essence of riding. Gears clutter the experience.” Adewale chatted with Jess and Jana. They were studying fashion in Stellenbosch and had their own fashion blogs. Their conversation seemed to be mutually interesting because Adewale had never been so animated in all of the time Séraphin had known him.