The Last Sentence

by Tumelo Buthelezi

  “Fine. Fine,” he said. The writer turned and began to walk towards the door. He opened it, paused and turned. “But I’m not doing this for those culture vultures at TV Networx. I’m not doing it for you. I’m not even doing it for me. This is for Zoleka, Luzuko and Funeka.”

  And with that, he slammed the door behind him.

  Seventeen

  The Wait

  ANOTHER PAGE FELL to the floor, crumpled beyond use. The writer sat at his desk, spinning a pen. He’d been at it for three days and six hours – trying to get something on the page. But he had nothing. His mind drifted back to Molly. He’d been think a lot about her, maybe even missing her, missing the ideas she forced out of him.

  He didn’t have a fixed deadline. But he knew he had to work fast. In this cut-throat industry if you go quiet for too long you’re forgotten.

  As he sat in his study he craved a drink – an indulgence he’d given up for a clear mind. He was experienced enough to know the myth that “to make the mind think, the mouth must have a drink”. He tried to focus and resist temptation, but the more he tried not to think about it the more he thought about it until it was all he could think about. A drink. Just a tot to calm the nerves.

  He was not one of those writers who supposedly could write their way to inspiration. He couldn’t simply scribble, knowing it was rubbish, hoping that from that stinking pile of manure something magical would emerge. No. He wrote from inspiration – a lightning flash in his mind that revealed the entire story, which he’d try to capture before the light dimmed. He knew it would come. It always did. He just had to be patient.

  Three hours later, Bandile was still spinning his pen, blank as the sheets of paper before him. He’d have to call it a day soon. He tried a few mind exercises to get the creativity flowing – shifting his thoughts back and forth between topics such as politics, violence, morality, pandemics, love, hate and death.

  Death. That would be a relief.

  The thought surprised him. It scared him. How he’d suddenly realised how badly he longed for it. He tried to counter that thought with a memory of when he felt most alive. In church. It wasn’t the sermons; it was the singing. Something about human voices together in harmony lifted the soul. He picked up his pen and started to fill the page with the first ideas that came to mind. It turned out to be just a character sketch, but it was more progress than he’d made in days.

  Main characters:

  Thato Brian Phiri (22):

  A media studies graduate and aspiring comedian from Northcliff. His research and his quest for true identity have lead him to Sebokeng, where he finds a secret that divided the Mofokeng and the Phiri families. He is the son of the retired soccer legend Molemo Phiri.

  Pokola Bass Mofokeng (57):

  A primary school English teacher and the clap-and-tap choir conductor. He is Solly’s father and Brian’s uncle. Bass is an intelligent, abrasive and forthright man. He has also made terrible mistakes. Some which cost him a relationship with his younger sister, Tselane.

  Pinky Zondi (24):

  Educated, talented, sassy and street-smart lady. She lives in the same neighbourhood as the Mofokengs, with her father, and assists him in running the family tuck-shop. She is one of the lead singers at the clap-and-tap choir.

  Solly Mofokeng (28):

  A well-respected police captain. Smart, well-mannered and charming guy. He loves his job and is very passionate about maintaining social order. He is also a member of the clap-and-tap choir.

  Molemo Phiri (54):

  A retired professional soccer player and businessman. Strict, stubborn and overprotective father. Although he is a good-hearted man of principle, he doesn’t want his son to associate or interact with the Mofokengs in anyway.

  Doctor “Smurf” Motsitsi (24):

  A street hustler with big dreams. Outspoken, morally questionable and frequent minor-crimes offender. His slick tongue often gets him in trouble. Smurf has a twisted sense of humour.

  12 noon. Bandile’s lunchtime. He paid for his order from Lekker Grill and gave a rather large tip to the delivery guy.

  He went to the kitchen and opened the large brown bag. Inside was his usual: pap and steak with veggies. He lifted them out of the bag and set them aside. Reaching into the bag again, he pulled out something else tightly wrapped in silver foil. He unwrapped it and beheld the set of purple pills inside for a moment.

  Official name: Dimadron. Originally developed by the Linden Institute, a government-owned pharmaceutical company, to treat Alzheimer’s disease and dementia. The drug was widely available before being pulled for its psychedelic side-effects.

  Street name: Speedom. The popularity of Dimadron among recreational drug users saw its formula replicated and mass produced in the black market. The feeling it gave was like the feel-good, dopamine-releasing drug speed, but without the addictive sting in the tail. Users reported increased energy and more focused thinking. The psychedelic effects, which added to the terror of Alzheimer’s and dementia patients, was said to free the imaginations of healthy minds.

  The idea to order Speedom came to Bandile when, in a moment of frustration, he remembered that some of his peers used Ritalin when they wrote. The latter drug, meant to treat attention deficit disorder, allowed them to focus, they said. His problem wasn’t a lack of focus. That’s all he had: focus – a narrow, single-minded focus. But what good is focus on its own without an object, an idea, to direct? It’s like a conductor with no chorus.

  For a long time he stood and stared at the pills, unsure whether to take one. He considered the possibility that he was just depressed. He stopped taking his anti-depressants after the week with Molly. It was a spur of the moment decision that felt right in hindsight. He remembered that, in his depressive states, he’d feel that the world was a heap of dung. He’d fixate on how psychopaths run countries. Pompous politicians never understand why #FeesMustFall. Poor people are treated like trash. The unfairness of life. Round and round those thoughts would swirl in his head until he’d yearn to end it all.

  But what he’d been feeling lately as he tried to bring this new story to life, and failing, was different. It wasn’t depression; it was emptiness. He felt a shell of his former self.

  He walked over to the window where he saw a bee repeatedly flying into the glass pane, trying to get out. It was the insect’s loud buzzing that alerted him to its plight. He watched it tackle the invisible barrier hindering its freedom over and over again, and failing. It made him think of his own battle.

  He looked at his laptop in the study. Staring back at him was an empty page – a terrifying sight. It sent him scrambling back to the kitchen counter where he popped a Speedom pill.

  He then sat at his desk and waited for the effects to kick in. For the stampeding heard of ideas which he’d channel and drive to settle on the page. He’d had a taste of the drug two days earlier – a small sample. Under its influence he’d written a wonderful poem about the drops of water from a leaking tap. He readied himself now for the full experience.

  Pen in hand, he began to write the first scene, to set the characters he’d sketched out in motion. They began to move by themselves and he tried furiously to record everything. He felt like he was watching a movie – an immersive movie where he was on set, and the actors were going about the performance oblivious to his presence. He gave himself fully to the experience.

  Fade to:

  INT. – MOFOKENG RESIDENCE – DAY

  [A nice Saturday afternoon. The sky is clear. We see house number 22956, Zone 12. Bass (58) is sitting in the living room, on the phone with a relative. Solly (late 20s) is almost done preparing food.]

  Bass (mobile phone pressed to his ear): Nie, mshana. Don’t worry, your timer won’t find out … Yes … As soon as you get off the taxi your cousin and I will be waiting … okay … good … safe trip. Bye-bye (hangs up and calls out to Solly). Son, how’s the grilled chicken coming along?

  Solly (O.S.): Everything is almost ready, Pa.
Is he here already?

  Bass: Not yet. Maybe in the next 40 minutes. His taxi just left the Vereeniging taxi rank.

  Solly (jokingly): So, is he another Oreo? Black on the outside, white on the inside?

  Bass: Sounds like it. But he knows Sesotho. Speaks and responds well. So, there’s no need for you to go and study the dictionary.

  Solly: Poor guy. He must be really yearning for a kasi experience. He is so curious about the lifestyle that he is willing to live outside his comfort zone for a month. And I can’t believe that he’s even using public transport to come here.

  Bass: Well, I’m not surprised. Who can blame the kid? I too would want to visit a world that lies beyond the big suburban walls of Northcliff and get away from a parent that kept me tied up to a life which they think is right.

  [Solly comes into the living room and sits on the sofa.]

  Solly: Come on, Pa. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you imagine.

  Bass: You’re right about that. It’s worse than I imagine! The boy looks and sounds more like a Brian than a Thato. Now he wants to find out more about his roots and find himself.

  Solly: Oh? But I thought he was coming here to give his research some township flavour.

  Bass: Yes, that too. But I can sense that this trip is going to be about much more than gathering information on our way of life. He may be the spitting image of his father, Molemo, but he takes after his mother, Tselane. God bless her wonderful soul. My sister was always eager to soar higher than she had been before; always seeking adventure. Oh, remind me to ask him if he might be interested in joining our choir during his stay here with us. My gut tells me that he might have suckled some music talent from my sister. She was even known in our village as the spring morning songbird.

  Solly: But Pa, won’t his father be upset when he discovers his son’s whereabouts?

  Bass: And who’s going to tell that copper-head? You?

  Solly: I’m just worried about the earth-shattering fit the man will have if he learns that we are hosting Thato during his field work around the township.

  Bass: Stop worrying, man. We are not going to hold the guy hostage. He’s free to leave whenever he feels like having McDonalds instead of tripe and cabbage for dinner.

  Solly: Okay. I just hope this secrecy doesn’t blow up in our faces, Pa.

  Bass: Relax, I can handle Phiri. We go way back

  Solly: So, tell me more about him.

  Bass: Who?

  Solly: Thato’s father.

  Bass: Oh, yes. Molemo “Combustible” Phiri. Retired soccer legend and successful businessman. What more can I say?

  Solly: What about his early life? You’re all from the same small village in Lesotho, right?

  Bass (stumbles over his words, quickly changing the subject): Eh … yah. Life was … just fine, I suppose. Now go check on those pots. We don’t want to serve our guest ashes.

  Solly: So, were you guys close? Were you ever friends at some stage?

  Bass: No. Now go check on things in the kitchen before we leave.

  Solly: Was he one of those guys you felt weren’t good enough for your sister?

  Bass (now annoyed): Jesus! Do my instructions come out in Mandarin? Just go and do what I told you to do.

  [Solly raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say a word more. He goes back to the kitchen. There is a brief awkward silence.]

  Bass (calm again): Look, Solly. I just got a lot on my mind, okay? Now I just want to finish reading my paper in peace. Go get your cousin from the taxi stop. All those things will be dealt with in time.

  Eighteen

  Speedoom

  FINALLY THERE WAS something on the screen – the bud of a story opening. Bandile smiled, satisfied but not ready to rest. He still felt the presence of the drug in his system. Unlike its name might suggest, Speedom doesn’t cause a rush. Rather, it slows everything down, brings it into focus and fills the body with a satisfying warmth.

  He felt like he’d emerged from a long, dark tunnel to be bathed in the eternal sunshine of a planet where the sun never sets.

  Bandile rose to his feet, wandered back to the window and opened it. The bee flew out and disappeared against a blue sky. He was feeling good. This new project, tentatively titled Clap and Tap, still had a long way to go. But there had been progress, the first step of a journey. And he had the Speedom to thank. It felt like divine intervention, timely divine intervention.

  The previous times he’d turned to God, the help he wanted had been slow in coming, if it ever came at all. Prayer had been his crutch, until he decided to rely on his own knowledge and wisdom, on his own power to change his personal circumstances. He was tired of his requests ending up stuck in heaven’s admin office, where billions of other people on this pale blue dot that circled a star on the outer edges of the Milky Way galaxy were also sending their requests. It was only in his moments of weakness, when he was down and most desperate, that he’d return to his crutch, sending pleading words to the sky and hoping for an answer that was never forthcoming.

  Still under the meditative clarity of the drug, Bandile felt himself finally letting go forever of his belief that good things come to those who wait – a belief that informed even his approach to writing. He knew and had seen that all good things are owned by those who take. He would take – but not from others, from within. He would plumb the depths of his being to produce this script, even turn himself inside out if he must. He would capture not just words, but the colours, shades and hidden meanings behind the words, and sentence them to life on the page. He could tell that, after this project, he would never write again; a worthy sacrifice. A path to redemption, not of his living flesh but of his creative mind. He would never write again, but the success would ensure that he bequeathed his family the comforts and material security that would comfort them in this cold world.

  He was enjoying the feeling, the ease with which thoughts came while under the influence of Speedom. Desiring to stay in the feeling for a few hours more, he took another. He dropped the purple pill into water and watched it dissolve. He brought his nose closer to the glass and noticed that, as the pill dissolved, it put on a fireworks display in the glass. All manner of colours and shape of fiery explosions lit up the tiny glass on the counter. He wished everyone in the world could see this. He thought of petitioning the government to put Speedom in the water supply and laughed, remembering how long it took them to provide drugs to treat HIV. Normally that thought would have sent him into a grumbling rant about the unfairness of life and the depravity of politicians. But instead, this time, it made him laugh – not because it was funny but because life is full of such absurdities.

  Life is absurdity, he thought, as he emptied the effervescent contents of the glass into his mouth.

  He re-read what he had written so far and continued to type, his fingers moving fast and free over the keyboard.

  Fade to:

  INT. – LIVING ROOM – NIGHT

  [The last rays of the setting sun light up the sky and stain the atmosphere crimson. The two men return to their home with the third one they have been expecting. As head of the house, Bass is the first one to enter, followed by Solly, holding a travelling bag, then Thato (early 20s), carrying his equipment bag.]

  Solly: Sho, bra Thato. Welcome to the macho mansion. Put that bag down here and I’ll take this one to your room.

  Bass (to Thato): So, what do you think? Nothing like what you’re used to, huh?

  Thato: Well, uh … It sure is different, Uncle. Unique. Guess I just need time to take it all in. But I think I’m going to love it here.

  Bass: You’re right, mshana. You must be exhausted from the long trip. Sit, make yourself comfortable. (To Solly) Son, please get him something to drink.

  Solly: Alright, cousin. What will it be? Beer or something stronger?

  Brass: Hey! Since when do children drink in my company?

  Solly (laughs): Sorry, dad. I only said that for the priceless reaction on your face. (To Thato) Yo
u see, cuz, my father is the president of the conservatives’ club. The man refuses to get on the modernisation train.

  Thato: Seems like both our dads were trained in the same discipline academy.

  Brass: Yah. That’s the Molemo I grew up with. And even though he kept his children from their true roots, I’m glad to know he raised them with respect. How’s he doing by the way?

  Thato: Better than a month ago, when he collapsed and had to be hospitalised. It was work-related stress … Plus he’s still having a hard time dealing with my mom’s passing.

  Bass: Shame. That’s enough to cancel beats in an old man’s chest.

  Thato (looking downcast): Which is why he must never find out that I am here with you guys.

  Bass: Don’t worry, he won’t. Now, please tell us about yourself.

  Thato: Well, I was born in Northcliff. My parents were hardly around – Mom worked in London as a nurse and Dad was always travelling for work – but they made sure my big sister and I got the best education. She has a BCom degree from Wits; I studied theatre, film and photography. Currently, I am focusing on my career as a comedian. Which is part of the reason why I’m here. I want to do a bit of research for an upcoming show. I want to learn more about township life so I can give my material some kasi textures. I want to come up with material a lot of people can relate to, you know? And I still can’t believe I didn’t know about you guys until we met at my mother’s funeral.

  Solly: Then let’s make up for lost time. We can start by having supper as a family. Let me go and dish up.

  Thato (as Solly heads for the kitchen): Need a hand with that?

  Solly: Nah, relax. You’re a guest here. I got this.