by Lesley Lokko
‘So how long have you been back?’ Ayanda asked, coming to a stop at the traffic lights. She looked left and right and quickly powered through. No one stopped at red lights, especially not at night, and especially not in the townships. Kemi didn’t answer for a second. She turned her head briefly to look at the street. How was it that the neat, clean, grass-edged streets of places like Melville and Emmarentia could give way so seamlessly to the rutted and potholed roads of Orlando West, Diepkloof? She felt herself slipping back into something that was at once wholly familiar and yet strange. It had been years since she’d crossed the divide separating this world – the world of lean-to shacks, corrugated iron, enclosures made of sacking and loose bricks, and the open grassy veld in which whole cars had been left to rust and rot – from that world where she now lived, whether in London or here in the spacious guesthouse in Melville, a world of tended gardens, street signs, neighbourhood watch schemes and azure swimming pools. What did you call these broken streets with their rows and rows of institutional housing – two windows, a door in the middle, a parody of a child’s drawing of ‘house’ – and the yards filled with the cast-off debris of white suburbia? Half the houses had no electricity, the other half no running water. What was this place? A town? A village? No man’s land?
‘Back?’ she said slowly, turning to Ayanda. She smiled faintly. ‘Everyone asks me that all the time. But the truth is, I never really spent much time here. I was born here, but I left when I was two, when my father was jailed, and I grew up in Salisbury. Well, Harare. I left when I was nine, so I’ve spent most of my life outside.’
‘Does that matter?’
Kemi considered the question for a moment before answering. ‘I suppose I’ve chosen not to remember. We actually lived somewhere near here. I don’t remember where exactly.’
‘Meadowlands. You were living on Nkosi Street when your father was arrested. I remember hearing about it from the grown-ups. I must have been about seventeen at the time. We heard the whole story. How your father tried to jump the fence at the back of the house but the police dogs got him. Apparently, he showed the officer how to stitch his own hand in the back of the police van. He was bleeding all over the place and they didn’t know how to stop it. They wanted him alive, you see.’
Kemi looked at her in surprise. ‘I didn’t know that,’ she said slowly.
‘I suppose you were too young. For the longest time it was one of the photographs on the wall of my grandmother’s house. You, going up the steps of the aircraft with your mother. Heroes of the struggle.’
Kemi shifted uncomfortably in the seat. ‘I don’t feel that way,’ she said, wondering if she dared confide in Ayanda. ‘I . . . I don’t really feel anything. It feels as though it happened to someone else, not me.’
‘Do you remember your father at all?’
Kemi looked down at her folded hands. ‘No, not really. A few things . . . the sound of his voice, his accent. Mostly I remember everyone else’s reaction, not his or mine. It’s as if it didn’t happen to me. It’s as though it happened to someone I read about, not my own father. Isn’t that strange?’
Ayanda shook her head. ‘It’s not uncommon,’ she said, her voice suddenly gentle. ‘It’s to do with the way we process memory. You should know all this. Long-term memory is particularly sensitive to emotional trauma. That’s why you sometimes find a blank in your own memory if there’s been a particularly stressful or traumatic event.’ She smiled. ‘My first degree was in psychology. When I first came home, I was put on the Truth and Reconciliation Committee, listening to people’s accounts of trauma under apartheid. We saw a lot of that sort of memory loss.’
Kemi’s hands were shaking a little. She put one hand over the other to stop the trembling. ‘I always thought memory loss was physical,’ she said slowly. ‘Like a blow to the head or something.’
Ayanda shook her head, smiling a little. ‘That’s the surgeon in you. You’re trained to think primarily in terms of the physical. Find the problem, cut it out . . . that’s how you measure a successful intervention. But the brain is so much more than its physical reality. That’s what fascinates me.’
Kemi was silent. The urge to unburden herself came upon her crudely, like the urge to vomit. She turned her head away, concentrating fiercely on the low houses shut tight against the night, battened down hatches, a lone eye in a window pane that was a candle . . . the low, endless, rag-tag density of the township without a single tall building to puncture the horizon, until the strip of sodium lights announced the beginning of the highway, and the elegant finger of the Sentech Tower could be seen silhouetted against the sky.
The door to Jen’s suite was shut by the time Kemi got back. She was probably fast asleep. She wondered what, if anything, Jen had done during the day. Florence had insisted on organizing a driver and a guide to take Jen around. ‘It’s the least I can do,’ she said firmly. ‘Her parents looked after you for half your life, this is nothing.’ Kemi saw immediately that there was no point in arguing. The relationship between her and Florence would always remain distant, each careful to keep the other at arm’s length for fear of what might be said out loud. For all her mother’s self-assuredness and outward air of extreme confidence, Kemi somehow sensed that she too was at sea. Florence was not the type to admit to mistakes or to give voice to regrets. Under the circumstances, they’d done the best they could. And it had turned out well, thank God. Kemi was back now, with the coveted education and training her parents would have given her, had they been able. She had no idea what the financial arrangements had been, or if there had ever been a debt to be settled. Uncle Robert was wealthy enough and discreet enough to close down the possibility of even a discussion. It was simply never mentioned and Kemi learned not to ask. Now, however, the tables had been turned and it was Jen who was in need of support. Florence stepped in without a murmur, and it pleased Kemi to see her fussing over Jen the way she’d never fussed over Kemi. She’d never had the opportunity.
‘What does she want to do?’ Florence had asked, in one of their rare telephone calls. ‘Surely she can’t just hang around whilst you’re here?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Kemi said honestly. She hesitated. It wasn’t her place to divulge Jen’s ambitions, or lack thereof. ‘Maybe she’ll talk to you about it. Her own mother isn’t much help.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘I heard she’s not well,’ Florence said delicately. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘She’s been that way for a long time,’ Kemi said carefully. ‘But ask her. She admires you, I know.’
It was Florence’s turn to remain silent. Yes, so much was left unsaid.
She unlocked the door to her room and shrugged off her coat, letting it fall to the ground. She felt her way to the bedside lamp and switched it on. She turned around to pick up her coat and stopped. An enormous bunch of red roses, still wrapped in paper and cellophane, sat on the small table next to the bathroom door. She walked over, her heart beginning to beat faster. She picked them up, inhaling their heady, rich scent deeply. A few drops of cold water still clung to the thick, velvety petals. There was a small card attached. She pulled the flap open and drew it out. Please forgive me. Solam. She stared at it. She put the flowers down carefully and walked over to her bag. She fished out her phone. It was not in her nature to be churlish or coy. She quickly tapped out a single word. Forgiven. She switched off the phone and headed for the shower. What now?
42
A stripe of sunlight filtered through the blinds and came to rest on Jen’s face. She surfaced slowly, listening to the sounds of birds in the garden outside chattering excitedly, and to the faint bustle from the kitchens in the main house. She yawned, bringing tears to her eyes. Every morning was the same. She woke long after Kemi had left for work, ate a leisurely breakfast on the small patio outside their cottage, and spent the day mostly lounging by the pool, reading or daydreaming. To her surprise, Florence Mashabane seemed to think it was her responsibility to make sure Jen
’s days were filled. She had organized a driver, a string of local guides, contacts in the blossoming art scene – nothing was too much effort. At first, Jen was bemused and slightly embarrassed. ‘I feel terrible,’ she wailed to Kemi. ‘Surely your mother’s got better things to do than worry about me?’
‘Oh, she loves it. She wouldn’t be doing it otherwise, trust me. I actually had no idea she knew anything about art. She’s thrilled she can talk to you about her favourite artists. You know me . . . I can’t tell one end of a painting from the other.’
‘If you’re sure . . .?’ Jen said dubiously.
‘I’m sure. She’s always complaining my father doesn’t want to go to galleries with her. Go and enjoy yourself. Meet a few new people. I’m the one who feels terrible . . . I haven’t had a spare moment since we got here.’
She glanced at the clock beside her bed. It was just after 9 a.m. Florence had organized lunch with the daughter of one of her friends – Kellyanne or something along those lines – who had just opened a new gallery in town. It was in Braamfontein, Florence said, a part of town that no one went to. Apparently. Jen couldn’t work out why anyone would open a gallery in such an undesirable location, but there was no one to ask and Florence didn’t seem the type to take kindly to questions. The driver was coming at ten thirty. Enough time for a quick swim and a shower.
Braamfontein didn’t look that bad, Jen thought, as the driver slid into an empty parking bay. In fact, it reminded her of New York. The new development – 44 Stanley Avenue – was about the size of a city block, just off the main road. It looked as though it had been a sprawling factory at one point, with multiple entrances and little workshops, now boasting appropriately rusted signs in bold letters and yards of trailing wisteria and bougainvillea. It was charming. She got out of the car, intrigued. She walked through the main entrance, which opened onto a delightful little courtyard full of olive trees, small shops, and with a charming cafe at one end. Florence was wrong. The cafe was almost full. Far from being a place where no one went, it seemed to be the place where everyone went. She looked at Florence’s message. The gallery is to the left of Salvation Cafe as you come in the main entrance. You can’t miss it. Ask for Kellyanne Simpson. She walked past the cafe and the clusters of trendy, gorgeous people drinking coffee and nibbling distractedly at slices of cake . . . and there it was, just as Florence said. Room Gallery. The door was open. She walked in and caught her breath. It was like being back at Scheuler Lu. The familiar, heady scent of new paint and new wood . . . the stacks of paintings lined up neatly on the floor, waiting to be hung . . . the smell of coffee and cigarette smoke . . . the white walls and high ceilings. She felt immediately at home.
‘Hi, can I help you?’ A young woman came out from a door to one side. She was dressed in jeans with a beautiful paisley-print silk shirt, huge blue eyes, and one of those ultra-trendy micro fringes that Jen secretly longed to be brave enough to wear.
‘Hi, are you Kellyanne? I’m Jen. I think Florence Mashabane called you earlier . . . she wanted us to meet?’
Kellyanne looked surprised. ‘You’re Jen?’
Jen nodded. ‘Yes, that’s me. Were you expecting someone else?’ Kellyanne was frowning, as if something didn’t add up.
‘Oh, she said she was sending her daughter. I just assumed . . . are you her daughter?’
Jen smiled. ‘No, not quite. I grew up with . . . well, it’s a long story.’ She looked around the gallery. ‘This is great,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘Florence was a bit funny about the neighbourhood. She said no one ever comes here.’
Kellyanne laughed. ‘That’s what everyone thinks. It used to be completely derelict. It’s an old factory, hasn’t been active since the seventies, but it’s coming back to life. It’s an amazing place. We love it here. Welcome to the new South Africa!’
Jen walked over to the stack of paintings waiting to be hung. They were beautiful, vibrant paintings of Johannesburg’s inner city, some obviously painted from a rooftop or a high vantage point. ‘Who’s the artist?’ she asked, her eye caught by the strong, bold colours and confident, sweeping lines.
‘Stanley Hermans. He lives just down the road. Some of these are of the train yard just across the road, and then there’s his dinner party series. They’re a sort of ironic take on The Last Supper, but with contemporary politicians as guests. It’s a bit risqué, even for us. He’s brilliant, though. We’re super excited he’s agreed to show here.’
‘They’re beautiful.’
Kellyanne nodded. ‘The art scene has really taken off in the last couple of years. It’s such an exciting time for us. We’ve been pariahs for so long . . . it’s great to finally be back on the map. So, what brings you here? Florence said something about looking for work? Have you worked in a gallery before?’
Jen nodded. ‘I worked for a small gallery in New York for a bit. And then in London, before we came out here.’
‘You lucky thing. New York, London, Edinburgh . . . all these amazing places. I’ve never been out of South Africa.’
Jen looked surprised. ‘Really? But you look . . . you sound . . . almost British?’
Kellyanne waved a hand. ‘Oh, we all do. English-speaking whites, I mean. We all like to pretend we’re from somewhere else . . . anywhere but here. You’ll find out. Everyone’s going to love you. You’re the real deal, not like most of us. We’re just pretending.’
‘Pretending to be what?’
Kellyanne shrugged. ‘We don’t even know yet. That’s the problem with this place. We don’t know who we are . . . and we’ve no idea who we want to be.’
Jen was silent. She felt suddenly awkward. The undercurrents of tension that were always present in South Africa tugged at her constantly. An image suddenly swam into her mind’s eye. It wasn’t the slipstream of a jet, that powerful current of air produced by an object travelling through space and time . . . it was its opposite, the wake turbulence that an aeroplane generates at take-off: dangerous, unpredictable, disturbing.
43
‘Do you have a reservation?’ The head waiter looked Kemi up and down.
Before she could answer, a man’s voice broke in. ‘Yes, of course we’ve got a reservation.’
She spun round. It was Solam. She caught her breath. The waiter clearly recognized him, becoming his most unctuous self.
‘Oh, good evening, sir. Sorry, if I’d known—’
‘Known what?’ Solam asked evenly. He leaned forward to kiss Kemi on both cheeks. A second waiter was hurriedly summoned to lead the way to their table. Solam stood back to let her go first. She was conscious of his gaze burning a trail down her spine. She’d ignored Jen’s look of incredulity when she announced where she was going, instead asking her advice on what to wear. It had the temporary effect of stopping Jen’s protests dead in their tracks, but she wished now she’d chosen something slightly less revealing. Jen had pulled out a long, clingy black jersey dress by a designer Kemi had never heard of. It had a mid-thigh split, which on Kemi’s shorter frame actually mean upper thigh, but Jen was insistent. ‘No, you’re not wearing jeans! Let him see what an idiot he’s been!’
‘You can practically see my underwear!’ Kemi protested, looking at herself anxiously in the mirror.
‘Rubbish. Besides, if you had any decent underwear to begin with, you wouldn’t be worried. Now, turn around. I want to put your hair up.’
‘Is this fine, sir?’ The waiter hovered anxiously, fussing over the placement of the table relative to the other diners, the patio, the light, the breeze.
‘We’re fine,’ Solam assured him, looking at Kemi for confirmation. ‘Now, bring me the wine list and leave me alone to enjoy my date.’
‘Sir?’
‘Just the wine list, please,’ Solam laughed. He turned to Kemi. ‘Not too cold? Not too hot? Not too tired?’ He grinned, mimicking the departing waiter.
Kemi smiled and shook her head. ‘I’m fine, and this isn’t a date,’ she said sternly.
He
put up his hands. ‘Mea culpa. I’ve a feeling I’ll be saying that a lot from now on.’
‘So, what happened?’ Kemi looked at him straight in the face. There was little sense in pretending. ‘Why did you just disappear?’
He sighed. ‘I . . . I don’t know,’ he said slowly. ‘I got back and then work just started piling up and—’ He stopped suddenly. The waiter had appeared with the wine list. ‘Red or white?’ Solam asked her.
‘You choose.’
‘We’ll have that one.’ He pointed out a bottle, dispatching the waiter quickly, and then turned back to her. ‘Look, I’m not going to pretend. I was pretty shaken by you. I mean it. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met. It was partly my parents putting pressure on me, yes, I’ll admit it, but I . . . you scared me.’
‘Me?’ Kemi retorted incredulously. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘How on earth did I scare you? We went to dinner, we talked, I went home. End of story!’
He shook his head. ‘That’s just it. It’s not the end of the story. The opposite, in fact. It’s the beginning. And that’s what I suddenly got scared of.’
Kemi was silent. She had the sudden urge to kiss him. No man had ever been that open and honest with her, especially not after a single date. She drew in a deep breath, trying to steady her racing pulse. ‘We talked, that’s all. And a single kiss.’
He jerked forward suddenly, placing a hand on her forearm. He exerted a gentle pressure, pulling her towards him. She leaned in, her eyes never leaving his face. The kiss was slow and soft and strong, all at once. ‘There,’ he said, releasing her suddenly. ‘That’s my first mistake corrected.’
‘Solam—’ she began, aware of the blood rushing through her throbbing veins.
