by Rémy Ngamije
“Of course. They are much more terrible.”
“More terrible, or just terrible,” corrected the Black Séraphin.
Toothpaste turned to the other officer – Séraphin christened him Officer Younger – he was fit, yet to put on the weight which warranted the shoot-to-kill policy of the South African Police Service. They exchanged some words in Xhosa and laughed. “Just hold on,” Toothpaste said to Idriss.
Officer Younger walked around the car, kicked the tires, and noted the car’s number plate. He spoke some jargon into his walkie-talkie. The walkie-talkie crackled and then something only he could understand came back through it. He switched to English. Charlie-Alpha-number plate. “Control, can you confirm?”
Toothpaste asked Idriss for his driver’s licence and inspected it closely. There seemed to be no discrepancy to pick out so he flicked it back at him.
“Idriss,” he said, “at least you know how to keep your things up to date and you are one of the better ones. But your lekwerekwere friend in the back seat, he is too rude. It is not okay to be rude, you understand, Idriss?”
“Thankfully rudeness isn’t prohibited by the law,” the Black Séraphin said.
“O-ho, you know the law.”
Idriss said, “I’m sorry. Sah. We did not mean to be – ”
“You’re calling us lekwerekwere and then saying we’re rude,” Séraphin said. “That’s what we call irony which, interestingly enough, is not the opposite of wrinkly.”
“What the fuck, dude?” Godwin whispered.
“No. That is not the vehicle.” The voice from the other side of Younger’s walkie-talkie crackled.
“Thank you, control,” he said. He turned to the older officer and said, “This isn’t the car we’re looking for.” He leaned on the bonnet of the taxi. Clearly Idriss’s taxi was not exonerated from some other form of guilt.
“I think this is the car we are looking for,” said Toothpaste. “Your taxi, Idriss. It is overloaded.”
Idriss looked around his car with a panicked expression on his face. “I have seven passengers.”
Toothpaste made a show of counting heads. He lingered over Séraphin’s. “That one in the back is stupid enough for two,” he said. “That would make it nine passengers.”
“Do you mean I’m stupid enough for two people, which would make it eight altogether, or do you mean that I’m stupid enough for two extra people which would then make it nine.” Everyone in the car turned to Séraphin.
“Make it ten,” said Toothpaste. “It’s a nice round number.”
“I can see why you would feel an affinity to round things.”
“That one is very funny,” Younger said.
“He is,” said Toothpaste. “Ten passengers it is. Makes it easier to calculate the fine.”
Idriss’s shoulders dropped. “Sah. Please. Ten is many.”
“Three hundred per passenger,” said Toothpaste. “The fine is the fine. You can pay it or I can keep you here the whole night. It is up to you.” Younger remained leaning on the bonnet. Idriss was still. Then he reached under the seat. He pulled a wad of rolled up rands and began counting. “Hayibo! Idriss, you are making a killing out here. Maybe I should stop being a police officer and drive a taxi instead.”
Idriss counted the money and then looked at Toothpaste. “I do not have enough. Sah.”
“Idriss, You are wasting our time.”
“How much do you need, Idriss?” Bianca asked.
“I need one-thousand-two-hundred,” he said quietly.
Bianca reached into her purse and pulled out a two hundred rand note. She held it out to him. He refused to take it. “Idriss, just take it,” she said.
Richard took the note out of her hand and added his own. “Four hundred – took Yasseen’s – six hundred – then Godwin’s one-hundred-and-fifty and Adewale’s two-hundred-and-fifty. James turned to Séraphin who shook his head.
“I got you,” Séraphin replied. He pulled out his wallet and leafed through the notes. Three-hundred-and-fifty – there’s a tip in there for the good officer – he looks like he can always use a tip.”
Toothpaste took the money and stashed it in a pocket. “Idriss, you should relax, my friend. It could have been Pollsmoor Prison. You know how many of you refugees we collect each night? You see, my friend,” he leaned on the window again, “I was happy with five hundred like usual. Me, I do not ask for a lot. Both of us have to make a living. But your friend at the back, he is too clever but not too smart.”
“That’s a decent play on words. And that was without me hearing all the gears in your head turning.” Séraphin ignored his friends.
Toothpaste continued, “Now you have lost money. You need to choose better clients, Idriss.” He motioned for Godwin to open the door. “You at the back, do you want to step out of the car?”
“Not really,” the Black Séraphin said. “Since you’re asking.”
“Step out of the car then.”
Bianca whispered to Séraphin not to do it. Séraphin told her not to stress as he clambered out of the car. “This isn’t the US,” he said. “We’re still living in a civilised place.”
Outside the car, Séraphin stood with his hands in his pockets, shoulders back, chest pouting. The Black Séraphin and Toothpaste looked at each other for a while.
“What is your name?” Toothpaste asked.
“Séraph—”
The rest of the word was lost in a slap – what colourful sections of Cape Town refer to as a poesklap, a roundhouse swing of the arm which changes life trajectories and alters destinies forever – which made the right side of his face searingly hot before it went numb. He stumbled against the car, and then he fell to his knees. He blinked away tears.
Idriss jumped out of the car quickly and said, “Please, please. I take them all home now. Sah.”
The other High Lords made a move to get out of the car but Younger shouted at them to remain where they were. When the Black Séraphin managed to regain his feet, he held his face, breathing loudly. He turned to Toothpaste and did a strange thing.
He laughed.
Then he said: “You can’t slap like that and not talk dirty.”
The second slap came at him from the right again but this time Idriss got in the way. He blocked it with his forearm. Toothpaste seemed surprised by this brazen act of rebellion. He looked at Idriss with a quizzical expression. Idriss, however, stood his ground and said, “Sah. Please. Let us go.”
The seconds oozed by.
Toothpaste shrugged his shoulders and pulled up his belt. The demonic sense of humour was still upon Séraphin. He so desperately wanted to say something about shifting equators but the absence of feeling in his face made him slack-jawed. Toothpaste signalled Younger to follow him and together they went back to the van. Only when they’d pulled away, with their tyres screeching, did sound seem to return to the street.
Séraphin open his mouth slowly and deliberately. “Now I know how Dale felt.”
Idriss looked at him, face pulled into a serious grimace. “My friend, you need to get in the car.”
Séraphin climbed back into the back seat. Idriss’s taxi hummed all the way to Remms overburdened by the mood in the car.
“We’ll repay you the money you lost, Idriss,” Bianca said.
“Not to worry,” Idriss said. “I always lose money to those two.”
“This has happened before?” Bianca asked.
“It happens all of the time.”
Nobody said anything else until they were at Remms.
“Wait here,” Séraphin said to Idriss.
Séraphin went to his room and returned with a wad of cash, which he handed to Idriss. Idriss tried to push it back to him saying, “Issokay. Issokay.” Séraphin insisted he take the money. “This is too much.”
“It is enough,” Séraphin said. “Thanks for taking us home, Driss.” Then, more quietly, he said, “I don’t know what happened. I couldn’t help it.”
“My
friend, you could have wound up in serious trouble. You should know how it is here – for me, for us.” A string twanged inside Séraphin.
How it is here – for me, for us.
“I know.” The string refused to stop vibrating.
How it is here – for me, for us.
When Idriss drove away, the remaining High Lords stood around.
“That was fucked up,” said Yasseen after some passage of time.
“Yeah, corruption is fucked up,” Séraphin said.
“I wasn’t talking about that,” said Yasseen.
“Why didn’t you just shut up?” Richard asked.
“Because,” Séraphin said, “fuck that guy and his bullshit.”
“Yeah, you taught him a good lesson, didn’t you?”
“I’d say it was an educational night for him,” Séraphin retorted. “A bit of English, bit of maths.” They stood and watched him and he stared back at them. “I was just tired. Just tired.”
“Tired of what? Your common sense?”
How it is here – for me, for us.
“Just tired of Cape Town and its bullshit.”
“Can I ask that we all get a fucking memo or an advance warning when you’re about to get tired of something that could get all of us in trouble?” Bianca said.
“Of course, Bee. First thing I’ll do. Send out a general warning of race fatigue.”
“Would you like that with your weather report?” asked the Black Séraphin. “Mild racism with scattered xenophobic showers. Watch out for house parties, folks!”
“Don’t give me that, Séra. You can pull that shit with everyone else but not with us.”
“Guys, let’s just go to bed, okay?” James looked from Séraphin to Bianca. “All of this arguing now won’t achieve anything.”
“I’m with James,” Adewale said. “We can talk about this tomorrow.”
They all moved off towards their separate residences. As they did so, all of their phones vibrated.
KentTouchThis—HiLos_Of_E: Fuck all of you. AND I MEAN IT!
@KentTouchThis has left the group.
XXXIII
Andrew’s defection from the High Lords was the start of the now season, Cape Town’s unofficial fifth season, when all of the days in the city are the same. It stretched all the way through the Remms examination period to the day Séraphin’s father arrived in Cape Town.
A bit happened before that day, though.
From Bianca, who found out from Silmary, who received the news from Tara, the remaining High Lords heard that Andrew’s nose had been reset. But it would have a little bump in the middle, an unbecoming reminder of the last night all the High Lords were together. He severed all ties with them, refusing to take Richard’s calls and not responding to Yasseen’s text messages. Godwin contemplated calling him to see how he was doing, but then he demoted the idea to a lower rung on his list of priorities.
“He was a racist wanker,” he said. Séraphin, Godwin, and Adewale were in Godwin’s room. “I’m not saying what went down was cool, but maybe it’s better he left.”
“Maybe you pushed too hard, Séraphin,” Adewale said.
“Maybe,” said Séraphin.
After a long silence, Adewale turned to Séraphin. “Are you and Silmary serious?”
“I don’t know. We never spoke about anything long term.”
“But you like her,” Adewale asked.
“Hmm,” Séraphin said.
“You’re a fool. You should tell her,” Adewale said. He looked at Séraphin pointedly. “Have you apologised yet?”
“For what?”
Godwin let out a long whistle. “You should apologise. Make things right.”
Séraphin nodded and made the sounds the others needed to hear to leave the matter be and they both chided him for nodding and making the sounds they needed to hear to leave the matter be.
“Seriously,” Adewale said when they walked out of Godwin’s room. “Just apologise.”
“Sure,” Séraphin said.
Yasseen also told Séraphin to apologise. So did James. “Just say sorry, and then it will be okay.” Richard wanted him to make things right with Andrew first.
“I’m perfectly fine with not speaking to him between now and when the world ends,” was Séraphin’s response.
There was a spell of silence between them, and then Richard asked Séraphin about Silmary. “Is this thing serious?” Séraphin said he did not know. “You can’t know all of the useless trivia in the world and not know this.”
“You would be shocked at the things I don’t know, Rich.”
“Well,” said Richard. “You’ve always said you hated not knowing – so find out. Solve that confusion.”
Séraphin tried to the next day. He texted Silmary and asked her if she wanted to meet up but she said she was busy.
Silmary_Lillian—Sans_Seraph: Work is heavy at the moment. Lots of writing up.
Sans_Seraph: Cool. I should be studying too.
Silmary_Lillian: Okay.
The next morning, he asked her how she was doing. At lunch she said she was okay. He said he hoped her write-ups were going well. In the early evening she said she hoped his studying was going well too.
Bianca looked at the messages and said, “Is this how you apologise, Séra? Nothing in this message says you’re sorry. You’ve thrown Hail Marys for less than this.” Séraphin gave her the kind of look which made her say, “Suit yourself.”
Séraphin burrowed into his books. He would look at his phone every so often but there would be no messages from Silmary. More than once he picked up the phone ready to call her only to put it back down, scared it would not be picked up, that she would not answer.
The final year examinations crept closer.
And then:
YvesSaint—Sans_Seraph: Papa says he’ll be down in Cape Town in two weeks’ time.
Sans_Seraph: Oh.
YvesSaint: Your excitement could power a small city.
Sans_Seraph: What’s he coming down for?
YvesSaint: Conference. But he said he’ll stay until your graduation. Will you still be writing exams when he comes down?
Sans_Seraph: I’ll be done by then.
YvesSaint: What’s the plan after that?
Sans_Seraph: If I knew I’d tell you.
YvesSaint: Thought you’d have sorted that out by now.
Sans_Seraph: Ha! You find me exactly where you left me. And down one or two friends.
YvesSaint: What did you do this time?
Sans_Seraph: I don’t know.
YvesSaint: Which means it was big.
YvesSaint: My guess: you did something which led to a fucked up situation and even though other people contributed their two cents to the mess yours was the straw that did that thing to the camel’s back.
Sans_Seraph: Why must you be like this?
YvesSaint: I’m also going to guess after it all went down you didn’t apologise. Then you’re going to do that stupid thing you do where you keep quiet long enough for the thing to be forgotten or for the other person to get tired of holding up their end of the hurt and just forgive you for their own peace of mind.
Sans_Seraph: Don’t lie like this.
YvesSaint: We grew up together, man. We’ve survived you.
XXXIV
Fathers and sons have this thing where they either see too much of themselves in each other or nothing at all, and depending on what it is they find they will be proud or disappointed. Séraphin and Guillome were like this. When Séraphin picked his father up from the airport they embraced like awkward pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Séraphin took hold of his father’s bag and wheeled it from the international arrivals terminal of Cape Town’s International Airport. Séraphin glanced sideways at his father. He seemed shorter. Séraphin could not tell whether this was because he himself had grown or whether his father had shrunk. His father’s strides remained long and strong. His raptor-like gaze scoured the path in front of him of any human obstacles.
In the taxi, Idriss looked from father to son in the rearview mirror. The father, Idriss decided, looked like a serious sort. His physique spoke of athleticism in his youth. He looked at the townships spread on either side of the highway without curiosity. Idriss tried to make conversation by saying that most people who landed in Cape Town were always surprised by the poverty.
Séraphin’s father said, “Poverty is poverty. It is the same everywhere. I am not surprised by this.”
Idriss chose to keep quiet after that.
“Séraphin says you are from Benin,” Guillome said. They were approaching the city centre and the traffic merged seamlessly on the highways like zip teeth. “How are you finding it here in Cape Town?”
“It is like other places. You need to do what you are here to do and then when it is done you need to make plans to move on. This place is not for black people. It is for tourists. White people. Rich people.”
“You are thinking of going elsewhere?” Guillome asked.
“Johannesburg is the next step. It is a matter of saving for it. You must always have a plan to leave this place. Otherwise you will be here too long and then you will not know that anywhere else can exist.”
“My son,” Guillome said, “might not want to hear that.” Séraphin looked at the rectangles of luxury hotels on either side of Nelson Mandela Boulevard.
“He is young,” Idriss said. “He will know soon.”
When he dropped the two of them off at Guillome’s hotel in town he received a generous gratuity. “Pour les plans,” Guillome said.
“Merci beaucoup, patron,” said Idriss. He turned to Séraphin. “You will call me when you need to show him around, yes?”
“Of course,” said Séraphin.
Guillome’s room overlooked the sea. Séraphin placed his father’s suitcase on the bed and walked to the balcony. In the distance the spit of Robben Island looked like a scab on the blue surface of the ocean. Inside, his father began to unpack his suitcase, placing his belongings in neat stacks on the bed. He told Séraphin the training workshop and conference he had to attend for a week and a half would only be held in the mornings.
“I have to write a report and send it in, but after that in the afternoon we have nothing. So you can show me around?”
