The Eternal Audience of One

by Rémy Ngamije

  Why would you stay? What is here for you, Séraphin?

  The day before graduation he had reached for his phone and typed a message. There had been no response. As he sat in the hall, he pulled out his phone to see if there was a reply. There was none. Séraphin contemplated sending another message and decided against it. Instead he wound up in his music player, scrolling through the long list of playlists. He knew all their names, and he could recite the order in which songs would play. He was particular about that.

  “First,” he told Silmary when she looked at them, laughing at their names, “you have to decide what you want to achieve with a playlist. What’s it for? Jogging, gym, chilling, creating a vibe, studying, sexing. That kind of thing. Then you have to give it a name.”

  “Where’d you get your names from?” she asked.

  “The voices in my head give them to me. Then you chuck all the songs you think will be good together. You whittle down the list. Choose the ones that fit the mood the best. But you can’t just put all of the fire songs together. That’s lazy. Playlists have to tell a story, take you in a mood, work the mood, and then take you out of the mood.”

  “That’s a lot of work.”

  “It is when you don’t know your music collection. I know mine inside out.”

  “So make me one,” she said.

  “What would you like on it?”

  “Surprise me.”

  “The laziest words in romantic encounters.”

  “Clown. What’ll you call my playlist?”

  “I can’t tell you. You’ll just have to wait and see.”

  In the hall, Séraphin looked at the playlist and the name. He looked up from his cellphone, searching for a face. He found it. His father sat impassively with his arms crossed. He seemed as bored as Séraphin. He returned to the playlist again.

  “Dude, if you win, you win the game forever,” said the first Séraphin. He was seated next to him on his right.

  “Yeah, but don’t the words that start the romance end it too?” asked the second to his left.

  “Maybe. I don’t know.” The third reached across the first and took Séraphin’s cellphone and scrolled down the playlist. “You really called it that? I wasn’t serious, you know.”

  The fourth, who was sitting in the row in front of them, turned around and said, “When you get what you want you find out what you need.”

  “So,” said Séraphin, “what do we do?”

  “Carpe the shit out of this diem you must,” said the fifth.

  “Where do I start?” Séraphin looked from one to the other.

  “I’m no genius, but most good things start with hello,” said the first.

  “Failing that,” said the second, “sorry is always a good place.”

  “In your case, Séraphin, you’ll have to use both,” said the fourth.

  “Or, you can not say anything,” said another. They all looked up. The Black Séraphin swung from the chandelier.

  The Great Chamber fell silent. All the Séraphins had their attention on Séraphin on the glowing stage.

  The Dean of the Law Faculty took the stage to begin the capping ceremony.

  A disturbance in the crowd drew her attention to it along with the rest of the hall’s. Bianca and Yasseen turned around in their seats and saw Séraphin shuffling through his row. Guillome looked at his son causing a commotion as, finally freed, he stumbled into the middle aisle. They made eye contact temporarily.

  And then Séraphin ran out of the hall.

  The council meeting at Remms Memorial was a founding member short. It was also unlike any of those that had preceded it because everyone was of sober mind and comportment. As comfortable as they were around Guillome, they still maintained some modicum of respect for him. He stood looking at the city below with Bianca, Yasseen, Richard, Godwin, James, and Adewale talking behind him. Séraphin stood next to him. Guillome asked him about his plans when he came home.

  “I don’t know,” Séraphin said. “Probably just lie around the house for a while, then figure something out.”

  “Your mother won’t allow that,” Guillome replied. “Nukwitegura gukora. You know how she is.”

  “I know,” Séraphin said.

  Behind him, Séraphin heard a silence. He turned around and saw Silmary. She took turns greeting everyone, working her way towards Séraphin.

  When she reached him she said, “Hello, Séraphin.”

  “Hi.”

  Guillome coughed politely. Séraphin introduced his father. Guillome smiled at Silmary and shook her hand. He turned to Séraphin. “You are together?”

  “Yes,” Séraphin said.

  Silmary said, “Turihamwe.”

  Epilogue

  Nobody is there at the end of the end. That would be a terrible duty to discharge, to be the final witness, to put the last full stop at end of the last sentence on the last page. Nobody is given that power.

  So perhaps it would be most apropos to start this long pause with a recent cellphone chat.

  Sera-Fin—Silmary_Lillian: Are you serious?

  Silmary_Lillian: Yes.

  Sera-Fin: That’s the story?

  Silmary_Lillian: I never said it was a good story.

  Sera-Fin: It’s a kak story. That’s what I was waiting for all this time?

  Silmary_Lillian: It had interesting bits.

  Sera-Fin: Yeah, no, it didn’t. The part where your high school hockey coach hit on you was average at best.

  Silmary_Lillian: Average? That was my life!

  Sera-Fin: And it was boring, Sil. The dude hit on you, you reciprocated, and then you texted each other for what, a couple of weeks and you thought it was true love. Then you found out homeboy was sleeping with one of your friend’s moms. Then you spent the next term or so down and out. That story was as bland as an egg without Aromat.

  Silmary_Lillian: Screw you. It was deep when I went through it.

  Sera-Fin: If you say so.

  Silmary_Lillian: How is serving on the frontline of ignorance going?

  Sera-Fin: Taking fire every day. Telling all these children there’s a fire sale at the punctuation store but they aren’t buying. Their compositions look like a murder scene. Taking pages out of Mr Caffrey’s book. Drop a swear word here, crack a joke there. It’s cool working with him.

  Silmary_Lillian: How’s everything else?

  Sera-Fin: Yves is working, Éric is finally being serious with life. Mom’s still sighing whenever she sees me come home from school. ’Tis the year of the Great Sigh. Dad’s chilled. Windhoek is the same old shit. We’re getting a new mall, though. So that’s got people excited. Yay. Shopping mall. Life here still moves at the unfortunate speed of one hour per hour.

  Silmary_Lillian: I see what you did there.

  Sera-Fin—Silmary_Lillian: Of course you did. That’s why I let you wear the Number One Headband.

  Silmary_Lillian: Let me? I took that shit. Like a boss. With your bumbling, mumbling apology. “I am so sorry blah blah blah I know what I said was wrong blah blah blah and hello starts the romance and sorry keeps it going blah blah blah!”

  Sera-Fin: Why must you be this person?

  Silmary_Lillian: Don’t forget your cheesy ass playlist: Bae and Be Not Afraid! #sauce #soulsnatched

  Sera-Fin: Stop! Asseblief!

  Silmary_Lillian: You’ll never be able to say anything cocky in the group ever again! Anyway, it doesn’t look like anything on your end is worth it. Guess I’ll change this plane ticket I got to Windhoek to some other place. What about Mauritius?

  Sera-Fin: Who’s in More-Issues? Not me, I’m here. Come through. Windhoek isn’t that bad.

  Silmary_Lillian: Hahaha. Okay. Soon.

  Sera-Fin: Okay.

  Acknowledgements

  My earliest readers – Amelie Dukunde, Angé Mucyo, Wolfram Hartman, Alia Khalil, Mutaleni Nadimi, Shalom Ndiku, Peter Orner, and Mathabatha Sexwale – deserve preferential judgment at the end of days for patiently wading through the monstrou
sly long 267 000 word first draft. These early readers saw the madness in its verbose and embarrassing grandness and to have seen such a horror and lived to tell the tale is quite a feat. They were all right about one thing: the manuscript had to be cut down. It has, and I hope they enjoy it.

  Tlotlang Osiame Molefe will have my undying thanks for answering a random DM from an unpublished writer, answering his curious questions, and then passing my manuscript to my eventual publisher. I’ve always known that one is too small a number to make it alone, but I never really believed it until Tlotlang’s act of kindness.

  Thabiso Mahlape, BlackBird Books’ founder, Madam Publisher, or She of Incalculable Lobola, deserves more blessings than I can pay a charismatic pastor for. Her fearless and independent spirit has helped to publish a catalogue of black writers who’ve broadened African literary landscape. Taking a chance on an unknown writer from Windhoek, Namibia, took courage and an appetite for risk bordering on insanity. When I think back to the manuscript she read, I feel like I was sculpting with dynamite. Thabiso showed me what to do with a chisel and a hammer.

  Alison Lowry, my editor, slyly finessed so many chapters I’m not even sure what is hers and what is mine. I guess that is what great editors do. They draw out the best in you and sprinkle the messy bits with magic fairy dust.

  My proofreader, Efemia Chela, has all the yams. All the right people know what this means.

  To everyone from BlackBird Books and Jacana Media who handled full stops, page layouts, marketing and media, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  In the absence of money, a writer has to survive on kindness. All of these people had kind words for me in my times of need: Mekondjo Angula, Sissi Alfeld, Sarah Badat, Gordon Casey, Benedikt Coekoll, Jakobus De Klerk, Clement, Elizabeth, Querida, Alexandra, and Hannah Dunaiski, Zaid Gamieldin, Zerene Haddad, Kavena Hambira, Monika Hammerstein, John-Ross Hugo, Herschel January, Nyashadzashe Kadandara, Coletta Kandemiri, Christy Kaiyamo, Omagano Kankondi, Wasswa and Kato Kiguundu, Bongani Kona, Josie Kustaa, Sarah Koopman, Joonas Leskelä, Terry, Amy, and Ernie Liang, Bruni Lubbe, Tshuka Luvindao, Papama Matsiliza, Jonathan Macauley, Linathi Mbini, Reuben Mkandawire, Cecil Moller, Martha Mosha, Njeri Mwangi, Kudzai Nhundu, Dandago Nkoshi, Thato Ntsaere, Oatile Phakathi, Ruth Pietersen, Oneile Slave, Thapelo Selekane, David Smuts, Tanya Stroh, David Unuigbe, Mandy J Watson, Fulata Zimba, and Sicele Zondi. I’ve always been flattered by my friendships. I hope this book repays all the tears with some laughs.

  To my own eternal audience of one, Cara Mia Dunaiski, thank you for your energy, patience, and grace. If you read it, I will write it.

  This book has a longer story, a story too long for me to write alone (I’ve tried!). For me, it started with my parents and their unyielding determination to provide me and my siblings with love, shelter, security, and stability in the face of disappointment and tragedy. Because I knew where it started, I arrogantly believed I had the power to stop it when I put down my pen. But a writer only chooses their first sentence, the last word belongs to the reader. So where this story ultimately ends, dear reader, is for you to decide. Good luck.

  About the Author

  Rémy Ngamije is a Rwandan-born Namibian short story writer, columnist, essayist and photographer. His short stories have appeared in Litro Magazine, The Johannesburg Review of Books, AFREADA, The Kalahari Review, The Amistad and American Chordata. He is a BA Law and LLB graduate of the University of Cape Town.

  An Exciting New Look for BlackBird Books Fiction

  This new BlackBird Books look is a result of a collaboration with Sindiso Khumalo, a textile designer based in London and Cape Town, who graciously designed the visuals for the series. Sindiso studied architecture at the University of Cape Town prior to moving to London, where she went on to study a Master’s in Textiles at Central Saint Martins. Sindiso Khumalo founded her eponymous label with a focus on creating modern sustainable textiles with a strong emphasis on African storytelling. She designs the textiles in her collections by hand, using watercolours and collage. Over the years she has developed a uniquely colourful visual voice, which draws upon her Zulu and Ndebele heritage, and also speaks to the land of KwaZulu-Natal, where she is from. Sustainability, artistry and empowerment lie at the heart of the label.

  In October 2015, Sindiso won Vogue Italia’s “Who Is On Next?” Competition in Dubai. Sindiso feels very passionate about fashion and empowerment. She has spoken at the United Nations on sustainability in fashion and is currently working closely with the UN ITC Ethical Fashion Initiative. She has presented her work at Milan Fashion Week with the mentorship of Camera Nazionale della Moda Italiana.

  Her work has been exhibited at the Royal Festival Hall in London, the Smithsonian National Museum of African Art in Washington, the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art in Denmark and the Zeitz MOCAA in Cape Town. Her work has been published in Vogue Italia, Vogue UK, ELLE South Africa and Marie Claire South Africa as well as in the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art’s “Africa: Architecture, Culture and Identity” collection. Her previous clients include IKEA, Woolworths South Africa and Vodacom.

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