by Rémy Ngamije
“You never struck me as the kind of guy who slept with black women.”
“What does a black guy who doesn’t sleep with black women look like?”
“It isn’t a look,” she said. “More of a bearing, I think. As soon as you speak to them you just know they’re loved by white women. They’re the right kind of handsome and smart, they tend to be distant around black women. Either very polite, or not polite at all, because now they date or sleep with white women.”
“I’ve no idea about what you just said,” Séraphin said, “but I’ve always liked girls who like me.”
“So no black girls have ever liked you?”
“I’m sure some have,” he replied. “I don’t know, when I’m trying to get in someone’s guts I don’t have time to provide cutting-edge research on romantic race theory.”
“Guts.” Nike giggled. “That’s how I know I’ve been hanging around you too long. I’ve started figuring out the nonsense you say.” She hesitated and then said, “I kind of like it, actually.” Séraphin stayed silent. They looked at each other across the table until Nike looked away. “So it didn’t feel weird when you first came around?” she asked to move the conversation along. “You know, when we, you know?”
“When we what?”
“You know!”
“Right. Hooked up, slept together, hopped on the good foot and did the bad thing, f—”
“Foolishness!”
“No. I didn’t feel weird,” he said. “Look, you’re attractive and smart. You could’ve been blue or green, you were still going to get these strokes.”
She giggled. “Not strange even a little bit?”
Séraphin gave Nike a long look, his head tilted to the side as though he was seeing something in her for the first time. “Well, now you mention it,” he said, “I realise there was that one thing.” He turned his attention back to his notes hurriedly.
“What?” She sounded distressed.
“Well,” he said, “when you finished coming I didn’t ask you when you when you were going to give the land back.”
Nike laughed. A deep laugh, from her core. “Idiot,” she said.
While the land was never an issue between them it certainly was in the rest of South Africa. The land made the difference, then as it did now, as it would continue to do in the near future when the red berets formed and organised into an angry mass, jaded by patience and flagging political will. In Séraphin’s and Nike’s situationship none of that mattered. They made their study notes and lived in the shadow of questions which demanded answers. Séraphin’s wants were being adequately satisfied, in highly experimental and adventurous ways, which made Nike blush at their first proposals but then acquiesce out of curiosity. It even reached the stage where she was brave enough to ask Séraphin to do that thing – What thing – that thing with your tongue on more than one occasion. With the June examinations a few days away, it seemed as though there could be nothing else to possibly want from the situation. That was when the needs made themselves known.
They were lying in bed, notes forgotten on the dining room table. Séraphin seemed far away, something that had become more frequent. Nike took it as boredom. She sat up in bed. “Where is this going?” she asked.
“Where is what going?”
“I guess that answers my question.”
“Where would you like it to go?” he asked. “Don’t say nowhere because you’ll be lying.”
“I have places I’d like it to go. You know this too,” she said. “But I don’t want to even try going there if all you’re going to do is be bored with me. I’ve had enough practice
with that for one lifetime.”
“I’m not bored. I’m just – never mind.”
Nike looked at him, seeing, as though for the first time, just how young Séraphin was. “Exam stress?” she asked.
“Maybe.”
She tried to be playful and reached into the sheets and felt a defeated limpness. “What’s the matter?” she asked as she kissed his neck. She cast around for some conversational spark to pull him out of his silences and, hopefully, into her again. He always responded to wit more than emotion. “Is it my stretch marks?”
“My phone had a cracked screen and I managed to stick with it for a year. Trust me, it’s not your stretch marks.”
“Then what is it?”
“I don’t know.”
But Séraphin did know. A week ago everything with Nike was nothing more than something to pass the time. But a week later it was taking on the shape of something real, something that would soon demand a name. Nike, even though she never expressly said so, expected this thing to continue into the exam season, and beyond it. Nike sat up in bed once more. “Would you like to take a break from this?” In her face he could see a finality. All he had to do was sign on the dotted line.
“I guess so.” He sat up in the bed next to her.
“Okay,” she said. Her voice was distant. Her shoulders lifted, and then they dropped. She inhaled, and then she exhaled. “I think I misled myself with all the fun we were having. You have a lot to figure out and I have a lot to do.”
“Was I unkind?” he asked. He desperately hoped he’d done the homework.
Nike looked at him. He really was young. “No,” she said, “if anything, you were too kind. You never offered empty words. You even had the grace to keep quiet when I said I was liking our time together. But take this from me, Séraphin, sometimes actions become promises.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not.” They sat in the bed for another while, and then Nike said, “Success always demands a sacrifice, and if we’re to make it through exams we need to end this.” With a sad decisiveness, she stood up, wrapped herself in her bathrobe, and walked to the kitchen. Séraphin remained in the bedroom.
“She’s right, you know,” a Séraphin said, from where he was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Success does demand a sacrifice.”
“I know,” Séraphin replied.
“Do you now?” Their gazes locked. Séraphin looked away. “Anyway, it’s better this way. You have exams to focus on, and a future to fret about.” The Séraphin watched him dress, casting around the room for his clothes. “You didn’t even notice, but you never even closed the door once.”
Séraphin paused with his T-shirt halfway on. “Does that mean something?”
“Do you want it to mean anything?” asked the Séraphin. He was not given an answer. “Then I wouldn’t ask questions I’m not brave enough to answer.”
“What do we do next?” asked Séraphin.
“You tell me, boss. What’re you in the mood for? Sauce or success?”
“No Sauce,” said Séraphin. “No more Sauce.”
Séraphin found Nike sipping a cup of coffee in the lounge, seated on the sofa where they’d first sat listening to Sade. He wondered whether sofas were designed for breakups. He sat down next to her. “So,” he said.
“So,” she said.
“Dinner?”
XXVII
Unknown—Sans_Seraph: Hi. Are you busy?
Sans_Seraph: Who’s this?
Unknown: Silmary.
Sans_Seraph: Oh.
The reason why distractions beat focus nine times out of ten is because they let you know that you are going to win the lottery before you have even purchased a ticket. That is their beauty. Therein lies their curse. The forgotten one-tenth is where the magic lies and it is the thing everyone should ideally hold out for. But if it was easy to resist temptation, everyone would do it and the Our Father would become irrelevant. Distractions would not be the scourges of the present times – which is where we pick up our tale.
Here is the situation report.
Springtime flirts with the warming air. The first flurry of beach photographs have invaded social media feeds and the bravest of the brave shorten the length of their dresses and skirts, crewneck sweaters give way to V-neck T-shirts, the shorts come out. Gyms begin to fill up with
penitents keen to make up for their winter absence from the fitness faith. The sin of soup and sluggishness have taken their toll and the returnees huff and puff with their exertion, determined to lose what they could have avoided picking up in the first place.
It is all quiet on Séraphin’s academic front. Cases are bing summarised, notes are being made. Nike is a distant but occasional ache. Focus is adopted as a new god. With the end of the year in sight, most of the High Lords know where they are heading. Some are going to remain in Cape Town. Bianca, unfortunately, seems set to do another stint in the Jail City, where her parents pray every day for her sexuality to change. Yasseen is luckier. Johannesburg called. Adewale weaselled more funding from sources unknown and will remain in Cape Town next year as he completes his PhD. Godwin and Richard are determined to head back home to Zimbabwe and turn their country’s fortunes around. Andrew plans to travel.
Then on a Saturday saturated with sunshine a message appears on a phone and it is from Silmary.
Unknown—Sans_Seraph: I’m on the way.
There was the perfunctory debate about whether it was a good idea to abandon that morning’s planned study for something so impromptu. Good, logical arguments were presented about the need to be less impulsive, to be more deliberate in action and in thought. The Supreme Court of Séraphins listened politely and then slammed the gavel down in favour of upholding existing precedent: “Let’s just see where this goes, okay?” Séraphin sent a text.
Sans_Seraph—Silmary: What’s all this then?
Silmary: We’re going on an adventure.
Sans_Seraph: What kind of adventure?
Silmary: The kind that needs you to be ready by the time I arrive in ten minutes.
A pair of jeans and a T-shirt later he stood in the brisk air feeling the oncoming change of the season. Perhaps a jacket would be necessary, he thought, but before he could act on his prudence, an old, dark green Citi Golf with a couple of dints and one large dent was pulling into the paved driveway.
“Meet Yoda,” Silmary said.
“I know this one,” he said. “Because he’s old and green.”
“But the Force is still strong with him,” she replied. “I got him for a steal yesterday and this is his first official outing.”
“Good name.”
Whether it was the wind that made him shiver or Silmary’s smile, he did, almost imperceptibly, but she noticed. “You’re going to need a jacket,” she said. “It’s going to get cold later and I’m not one of those girls who gallantly gives up her jacket.”
Séraphin dashed back to his room to fetch something warmer, settling on a light grey hoodie. As he zipped it up he saw the other Séraphins. “What are you doing?” he asked nervously.
The first Séraphin finished tying his shoelaces. “Getting dressed.”
The second pulled on a sweater and spritzed himself with some cologne. “She said it’ll be cold outside later.”
“You’re not coming,” said Séraphin.
“He’s funny. I’ll give him that,” said the third, joining the others as they walked out the door, chuckling. They chuckled all the way down the corridor and into the courtyard. Séraphin hastily locked his room and raced after them to make sure they did not arrive at the car first.
“How long d’you intend on keeping me hostage?” Séraphin asked Silmary as he climbed into the passenger seat.
“As long as you wish.”
“Kidnappers don’t usually give their victims choices, you know,” he said.
“This isn’t a kidnapping. You’re coming along voluntarily.”
“You have to say you’ve taken me against my will so I feel better about abandoning my books,” he said, reaching for his seatbelt.
“You won’t get that pleasure,” she said. “But you might get others.”
The split second before Yoda’s engine thrummed into life stretched long enough for Séraphin to turn around in his seat and look at the other three in the back. All of them had their mouths open, stunned. The Séraphin in the middle, the one who had suggested he take along some form of protection, shook his head and said, “She’s good.”
“Still think you’re going to hold out, Séraphin?” asked the one sitting directly behind him, the second of the three.
“Foolishness,” said the third. And then, “Too soon?”
Séraphin turned back in his seat as Yoda coughed himself into life. “Right,” he said, rubbing his hands, “so where’re we going?”
“All over,” said Silmary.
All over began with Yoda croaking through the gears, leaving Remms, and working his way towards the M3 highway. The traffic was light and as Silmary switched lanes to put them on the straightest route through the Southern Suburbs only the old car’s humming was heard in the interior. The Séraphins in the back watched the two in the front. The overly interpretive air made Silmary reach for the radio console in the dashboard and turn it on, flipping through stations without finding anything she liked.
“You got an aux cable?” asked Séraphin.
“There should be one in the glove box,” replied Silmary. “How’s your aux game?”
The first Séraphin leaned forward in his seat so that his mouth was next to Séraphin’s ear. “Like my stroke game,” he whispered. “Say it.”
“Good,” said Séraphin.
“Should’ve gone with what he said,” said the second Séraphin.
“Simon and Garfunkel?” Silmary asked, as the slow, foot and finger-tapping drum and tambourines started.
“Of course,” said Séraphin.
“I like this song.”
“Me too.”
They shared a look, the kind of look that made the other Séraphins roll their eyes. None the less, no one in the car, real or imagined, could resist the magic of Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel’s “Hazy Shade of Winter”.
Silmary and Séraphin belted it out as Yoda zipped past the University of Cape Town, perched on its leafy slope on Devil’s Peak.
“Do you have the one by them that has the tapping beat?” Silmary asked.
“She’s rude,” said the first Séraphin. “What kind of question is that to ask a man?”
Séraphin thumbed his way through his music collection and found “Cecilia”. The familiar jingle made him pat the rhythm on his thigh.
“Cecilia got hers, though,” said Silmary when the song ended.
“I’m not one to judge,” said Séraphin.
“No, you aren’t,” she replied.
“So what’s our first stop?” asked Séraphin.
“Muizenberg.”
The ice-cream in Muizenberg was sweet and soft. The old woman behind The Majestic Café’s counter had fleshy arms that wobbled when she reached for their sugar cones. She coiled the white vanilla on Séraphin’s cone to a pointy bit and handed it to him. Silmary ordered the vanilla and strawberry.
“Strawberry’s a paedophile’s flavour,” said Séraphin.
“And bubblegum,” the second Séraphin chipped in.
“When we were growing up my parents used to get those big tubs of ice-cream that came with three flavours, they were always cheaper than getting one flavour. Vanilla was always more expensive, then caramel, then chocolate. Even at ice-cream level we were being told what the world was like. Anyway, the tubs always had flavours like bubblegum, strawberry, and rum and raisin. Terrible flavours. You could taste the whole manufacturing chain in it.”
“Why paedophiles?” asked Silmary.
“I assume that’s the kind of shit they’d use to lure a kid to their house,” said Séraphin. “Hey kid, guess what I have at home? Bubblegum and strawberry ice-cream. What do you think about that? Get in my big brown van and you can have all the ice-cream you want.”
“Creme Soda,” said the third Séraphin. “That’s a dead giveaway. If you see a grown man drinking Creme Soda he’s probably watching a playground with chloroform and a rope somewhere nearby.”
“You’re weird,” she said. “Yo
u know that, right?”
“You have no idea,” he replied. “I’ll get this. You did all of the driving.”
The woman handled his money carefully. When he reached for the change with his free hand she placed it on the counter instead. The coins scattered. The other Séraphins inhaled sharply. Séraphin sighed as he swept the change into his palm with the hand that held his cone. Some of his ice-cream dripped onto the counter. The woman looked at the spillage and made a disgusted noise in her throat. When they had walked out of The Majestic Café Silmary said, “That was fucked up.”
“Shit like that happens a lot here,” he said. “In town people still try to be slick with their bullshit, but the further out you go the less diplomatic they are about it.”
“And you’re fine with it?” she asked.
“Nobody’s fine with it,” he said. “But sometimes you’re too tired to not be fine with it. It takes stamina to be pissed off all the time. And nobody runs that prejudice marathon like racism. Shit is Haile Gebrselassie on Senzu beans. You can’t beat that.”
“That’s really sad,” she said.
“You haven’t been in Cape Town long. You’ll get used to it.”
They walked along Muizenberg beach, licking their ice-creams. The cold, blue-green water was whipped into white foam heads by a sea breeze which stiffened and softened from minute to minute. A handful of families were picnicking on the beach, umbrellas and windbreakers straining against the wind. Seagulls cawed and wheeled across the sky, looking for some stranded morsel on the sand below. Despite the bright sun, the wind prickled and Séraphin shook his head in disbelief at the surfers who had braved the water. “That’s some white people shit,” he said, pointing. Silmary hmmed her agreement and they stopped for a moment, watching one of the surfers attempting to stand on his board, rocking unsteadily and then falling into the water.
The first time Séraphin saw the ocean it had amazed him. The great blueness, stretching from far left to far right, further than he could see, further than his ten-year-old imagination could fathom or map. The trip from Windhoek to Swakopmund was filled with Bee Gees and UB40. His mother was on cassette duty while his father drove. She fed the cassette player a diet of TDK meals, rarely letting silence enter the car. She sang along and made her shoulders roll.
