There was a time when places such as this were his regular haunts, before the success, fame and awards. He felt disgusted to realise that now he felt more like a visitor to a zoo.
Stepping out of his luxury sportster – another remnant from a life that was slipping away – he greeted the self-appointed, toothless car guard. The chap with an empty grin and wearing an old, faded reflector jacket had been watching him with beady eyes since he parked.
“Don’t worry, mlungu wam’,” the guard said. “Your car will be fine when you come back.”
The wooden club hanging from his belt made the words seem as much a threat as a promise.
“Sho’, my bra,” he said. The two men bumped fists.
Broken glass crunched underfoot as he walked towards Cariba Inn at the corner. His body was still under the control of the woman’s hypnotic voice. Had it not been for her, he would not be here.
Cariba Inn from the outside looked like it was built when the area was more prosperous. A pair of art deco-style pillars flanked either side of the entrance and a plush maroon carpet, run ragged by decades of foot traffic, lined the entryway that led to the check-in desk.
The attendant sat in a booth with a window of plexiglass and wrought-iron bars. A door behind her, inside the booth, suggested that another room lay behind. Tiny holes in the shape of a circle in the plexiglass made communicating with the world beyond the booth possible.
Displayed prominently above the booth were the room rates, available at hourly, daily or weekly prices. It made Bandile think Cariba Inn the kind of place frequented by cougars and blessers with their Ben 10s and sugar babies.
He cleared his throat and asked the woman for room 28. He thought he might face a barrage of questions for such a specific request. But no.
“Ndala?” she asked.
Confused, he nodded.
The woman reached for a key on a rack beside her. She dropped it into a tray on her side of the booth. She pushed the tray and it popped out on Bandile’s side. He hesitated for a moment before reaching for the single key tied by a string to a wooden keyholder marked “Room 28” in black ink.
“You’re booked for a week. Check-out’s at 11am – no later. We have to clean,” she said. She seemed completely bored.
Before Bandile could ask his next question, the woman answered.
“Up the stairs over there, second floor, last room on the right,” she said.
He walked towards the room in a state of confusion. Who’d booked the room for him? Was it one of Kulani’s famous “trick or treats”? Kulani had over the years used what can only be described as interesting ways to motivate his client during a slump. Or, he thought, could he still be dreaming, his body home tossing and turning in a bed without Zoleka but his mind lost deep in his subconscious.
Finally, outside room 28, he closed his eyes and tossed his head back. Was he really going to do this? He knew he was going to. He had to. The woman’s voice may have been pulling him, but his own curiosity was propelling him forward. He opened his eyes and looked at the key in his hand. He eased it into the lock, which gave way with a metallic click when he twisted.
Pushing the door open, he stepped into the room. The lights were on. He looked around. A musty carpet. A double bed with two side pedestals, one with a lamp and the other a bible. A desk and high-back office chair. A small kitchenette. He expected worse, much worse, based on how the hotel looked from the outside. He closed the door behind him.
As he looked around the room again, he noticed the office chair begin to turn, slowly. There had been someone sitting there the whole time. A woman with long braids. The same young woman from his nightmares.
“Glad you could make it, Bandile,” she said, rising from the chair. Her tone was measured and calm, like that of a well-trained concierge at a five-star boutique hotel. There was no malice whatsoever.
Still, Bandile felt the right side of his chest ache again. He rubbed it gingerly with his sweaty left palm.
“Who?” Bandile said, his mouth and lips suddenly dry. He could not complete the sentence meant to inquire as to her identity.
“You, Bandi,” she said, cackling. “It was you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you,” she said, raising her voice.
Bandile turned on his heel and made for the door. Two steps and he was there, but knew by then that it would not open. He’d heard the metallic click seal it shut when he turned. Fumbling for the key, he tried to unlock it. But there was no keyhole from this side of the door.
He turned to find her standing so close that their noses almost touched. His heart was pounding. She engulfed him with her arms. Her right hand came to rest on his lower back and her left locked around the back of his neck. It was warm and gentle. He had not felt a caress so tender in a long time.
“It was always you. I didn’t know I was looking for someone like you until I found you,” she said. “We are going to do beautiful things together.”
Unsure, he began to raise his own arms to return her embrace. But in a single, fluid motion she let go of him and jabbed a syringe into his neck, emptying a stinging substance into his blood stream. Her aim was impeccable. She’d nailed him right in the jugular.
The chemical agent got to work right away.
Bandile saw grey clouds of smoke gathering at the sides of his eyes and coming together swiftly to block his entire vision. He tried to blink them away, but to no avail. Every coherent thought he tried to form turned to mush, like overcooked pasta. Then, he fell face first towards the floor, landing with a single thud.
Three
The Reckoning
BANDILE BLINKED HARD, trying to clear his vision. His entire body was in pain, even parts he never knew existed. Different kinds of pain. Burning sensations. Aches. Itches. Sharp stabbing. Generalised pain of no specific origin. Everything hurt. He turned his head, trying to figure out where he was. The motion caused him to groan, his brain feeling like a cactus with spiny needles poking at the insides of his skull.
Before his vision could return properly, he heard a voice.
“So …,” the woman’s voice purred, “… you’re finally awake.”
Bandile turned slowly in the direction of the voice.
As his sight returned, blurry double-vision coming together to form a single, clear image, she came into focus. Long, black braids. Slim, shapely body wrapped in a skin-tight black dress. Peach-shaped face. Soft, pinkish-brown eyes framed in long, unblinking eyelashes.
Being the typical male, Bandile could not help but find her immediately attractive. The woman was young, no older than 24, young enough to be his daughter. She was standing at the end of the bed, hands on hips, head cocked to one side, studying him.
A mix of loathing and rage filled her eyes. They were a shade lighter than her skin.
Bandile moved his tongue about his dry mouth, just enough to generate enough saliva to swallow and lubricate his throat.
“Did …” his craggy voice called out, “… did Kulani put you up to this?”
“Kulani is dead,” the young woman said, flatly.
The words sent Bandile’s eyes flying wide open.
“I killed him,” she added.
There was not a hint of emotion in her voice.
“You’re lying,” Bandile snapped.
“Think about it,” the young woman said, voice calm and measured. “When was the last time he came to visit you?”
She didn’t wait for his answer.
“Two weeks,” she said. “Has your ‘brotha’ from another ‘motha’ ever not been by to see you in that long?”
Bandile knew the answer was no. He and Kulani saw each other a couple of times a week normally. He thought Kulani’s absence over the past two was because his agent was too wrapped up in doing what he does best: cleaning up Bandile’s messes. That’s what Kulani said he’d do the day he bailed him out. Bandile thought his friend and agent was too busy speaking to studios, broadcasters and advertisers, tryi
ng to convince them that Zoleka dropping the domestic violence charges – knowing he was mentally unwell – removed from him the stench of the tabloid reporting of The Blue Moon. The paper’s headline poster had been splashed all over the city the day of his first court appearance: “Playwright Bandile Ndala: Wife Beater”.
He felt tears well up in his eyes.
“How?”
The question was a reflex. When someone dies, is murdered especially, it’s the most natural of instincts to ask how. But for writers, such questions aren’t entirely out of concern. Like vampires, writers feed off the stories of others, they sop up the gory details on how other people lived and how they met their end, then use them for ideas and inspiration when they create. Bandile convinced himself that he regretted asking. He didn’t want to know. But the young woman answered before the writer could find the words to withdraw.
“Unlike I will with you, I granted Kulani a swift, merciful death,” the young woman said. “Head-on with a truck. Dead in an instant.”
Disbelief flooded his mind. Kulani? Dead? No way.
Surely if that were true, he, his agent’s biggest client, would have been among the first to know. Someone would have called him. A reporter, Kulani’s business partners, Zoleka most of all. Yes, he’d been avoiding reading newspapers or watching news. But surely someone would have thought to call him particularly to let him know that one of the country’s most foremost writers’ agents, his friend, his best friend, Kulani, had died?
He recalled that Kulani was listed as his emergency contact but immediately realised he didn’t know if the opposite was true. He’d never had to rush to Kulani’s aid; it was always the other way around. That caused Bandile to reflect on the nature of their friendship. Was it a one-way relationship? Were they really friends – or was Kulani simply doing his job, what any responsible agent would do, making sure that his number one cash-cow was fertile and producing milk?
His swirling thoughts turned to Zoleka. Was the love of his life and mother of his children that angry at him that she didn’t call to him to let him know that his best friend was dead?
“Why?”
“Why what, Bandi?” the young woman said.
“Why did you kill Kulani?”
“He was of no use to me,” she said. “Plus … this was his fault.”
“What was his fault?”
“Sending you to that pastor Thobejane,” she said. Her voice was laced with anger and disgust.
That is when it came back to him.
Five years ago, Bandile was a small-time writer. He’d penned a couple of books and scripts that were turned into plays performed in unheard-of theatres by actors without the talent to breathe life into his words. The twins were a year old and the small family was living on Zoleka’s salary. It was humiliating for him, not being able to provide for them. He knew film and TV was where the big bucks were – but studios were rejecting his ideas left, right and centre.
Kulani, the fixer, saw that his friend was in a bad way. The writer was down in the dumps and on the verge of yet another depressive episode. He whispered to his client, after a couple of whiskies, that another of his clients had told him of a church that rekindled her inspiration and brought her untold prosperity. Untold because, apparently, those who prospered from Pastor Goodman Thobejane’s “anointed” touch were told to never whisper a word of it to anyone. Their lives would be simply transformed, with silence being the wisest option.
Imagine being wealthy amid a sea of poverty? Blessed among the wretched of the earth? The only choice was to hide such abundance, away from the eyes of those who might lust for it and want to take it through nefarious means. At least that is how Pastor Thobejane explained it to Bandile, as he participated in the late-night ritual. He was one of only three people chosen earlier that day.
Only the most deserving were selected, the pastor had said, insisting earlier that day that he saw a light in Bandile, one that could illuminate his way to fame and fortune.
Indeed that is exactly what happened after Pastor Thobejane had laid his hands on Bandile and made him drink a concoction that tasted like dirty water mixed with earthy spices and chicken inners. Scripts that had been rejected were suddenly accepted and turned into several TV shows and two films. Studios entered into bidding wars for his next work even before the idea had solidified in his mind. Money started flowing in, as did the awards.
The young woman had it half right, Bandile thought, again trying to sit up in the bed but pain causing him to abandon the effort. Yes, it was Kulani who brought the pastor to his attention. But attending the church and agreeing to return for the late-night ritual were the writer’s own choices. They weren’t Kulani’s fault.
The young woman was still standing at the end of the bed, eyeing him. She moved to stand by his side, her black dress ending in black boots that made no sound when they struck the carpet. If he had it in him, he would have leapt out of the bed and tried to get away from her. But the pain was too intense.
“Hurts doesn’t it?” she said. “I expected no less from the Mandzana.” She playfully raised an empty syringe and added, “It’ll keep you on your best behaviour.”
“Mandzana …,” Bandile mumbled. “What?”
“A neurotoxin. It’s turning your insides to soup as we speak,” she said. “You’ll be dead in seven days – and the pain is going to get worse with each day.”
“But why are you doing this?” rasped Bandile. “What did I do to you? What did Kulani?”
“I gave Kulani a fair trial and found him guilty,” she said. “Getting rid of him meant you’d be officially all alone in the world. He was the last anchor you had left that kept you from drifting into the vastness of insanity.”
Bandile began to ask another question.
“Silence,” she roared.
It was deep and other-worldly. Her smile had turned into a menacing grin.
“We have lots to do and too little time,” she said. “Rest. You’ll need it for your defence when I return.” She added, “Oh, and remember. I’m all in your head. There is nothing that you know that I don’t.”
The young woman began to shimmer, like a mirage, then she was gone. Bandile could hardly believe it. He must definitely still be dreaming. He tried to force himself to wake up. But the pain. The Mandzana. He put his head back to the pillow and, despite his best efforts not to, dozed off.
Four
The Trial of Bandile Ndala (Part I)
“VUKA WENA, SBOSHWA!,” shouted the young warden waking her prisoner up. “All rise.”
Bandile’s eyes fluttered open. He looked around. He was still in room 28 at the Cariba Inn. And he was still in pain. The nightmare continued, coherent as real life.
“I said, all rise,” the woman roared, the fire in her voice causing Bandile to sit bolt upright in the bed, despite the pain.
“The court is now in session. There is only one matter on the roll, The State v Bandile Ndala. The honourable Chief Justice Molly Shabalala presiding,” she said. “You may be seated.”
“Is that … is that your name?” Bandile said, throat still achingly dry.
Molly spun around in a graceful pirouette and, using a completely different pitch, tone and delivery style, she said, “Justice Shabalala, Senior Counsel Molly Shabalala for the State. I plead that the Court not allow the defendant such further outbursts. As it pleases the Court.”
She spun around again. “Mr Ndala,” she said, in a slow, deliberate, authoritative voice, “as you have chosen to represent yourself, I understand that you may not be familiar with proceedings in my court. But you are not to speak unless I ask you a direct question, or you have taken the stand to testify in your defence, if you so choose.”
She paused, staring into Bandile’s bewildered eyes. Her face was stoic. “Do you understand me?” she said, punctuating every word.
Bandile nodded.
“Then say so aloud, for the purposes of the court transcript,” Justice Shabalala said.
“I … I understand,” Bandile said.
“You are to address me as ‘Justice Shabalala’.” She glowered.
“I understand, Justice Shabalala.” Bandile swallowed hard. He wondered what kind of game this crazy woman was playing. Molly Shabalala? He’d never heard the name in his life. Maybe she was a bitter aspiring actress left on the cutting room floor in one of his productions. That might explain this one-man show she was forcing him to participate in. Maybe she wanted to show him that overlooking her was a mistake.
Despite it all, even he had to admit the young woman was a really good actress – definitely out of her mind, but good. Easily switching between three different roles – bailiff, prosecutor and judge – all pulled off like a pro.
“Is the State ready to proceed with the trial?” the judge asked.
“Yes, Justice,” Senior Counsel Shabalala said. Leafing through an imaginary file, she continued, “The defendant faces charges of accessory to murder after the fact. The State has brought this matter directly to the Constitutional Court because it is not a simple case of murder; it is about the right to live, a basic human right the defendant and his co-accused denied the deceased, a one Ms Molly Shabalala.”
Bandile was baffled as Molly multiplied characters like a cell undergoing mitosis. Not only was she the bailiff, prosecutor and judge, she was also the victim? He searched through his mind for traces of the research he’d done on his one and only legal drama, The Advocates. Maybe if he played along this mad woman would let him go.
The Last Sentence Page 2
