The Last Sentence

by Tumelo Buthelezi

  They had been attending a mutual friend’s book launch. She had just picked up a copy when Bandile mentioned over her shoulder that she’d made a good choice. She turned, a smart-mouthed reply forming on her lips until she locked eyes with her future ex-husband, and her face softened and lit up. It was like she’d seen an old friend, even though she’d never met Bandile until that moment. She smiled and pulled him into a deep conversation about the book. They exchanged numbers and texted frequently.

  He tried to use his words to woo her, accusing her of being a thief, a criminal. “No doubt with noble intentions, but a criminal nonetheless,” his text read. When she asked what on earth he was talking about, he replied, “You stole my heart. Don’t deny it. The police found your fingerprints on the safe in which I kept it.” Before she could reply, he added, “But keep it. I’m not pressing charges. I just won’t rest until I’ve stolen your heart right back.”

  “That was corny,” Zoleka’s reply read. Seconds later, she texted, “;)”

  Bandile knew it was corny. That was exactly what he was after. He could tell upon meeting her that Zoleka wasn’t the type to go for guys who took themselves too seriously to laugh at themselves. She liked to poke fun, to laugh, to be entertained. Smart, funny, self-deprecating guys were her type. The corny text worked.

  Pretty soon they were having regular dates and, before long, Bandile asked her to marry him. The proposal was a low-key affair over dinner. It was discreet and completely unnoticed by their waiter and the other patrons. No one around them gasped. The whole restaurant didn’t rise to applaud. A prelude to the knowing glances and smirks they’d trade across crowded rooms at public events, the proposal was their precious little secret. In such moments it felt like no one else existed but the two of them.

  Their wedding was also low-key. Friends and family only. The dress was the only indulgence Zoleka allowed herself, at Bandile’s insistence.

  A complex woman of simple needs, Zoleka had given him only three tasks when they got married: Be mine. Be loving. Put family first.

  The more Bandile failed at performing these basic tasks the more he turned to ostentatiousness to hide his failings, more so when the money started coming in. Zoleka could always talk to him when she out-earned him. But as soon as Bandile made it big, he stopped being hers. The fancy house, the cars, the fancy trips which he documented in detail on his social media accounts. They weren’t for her. They were for the world.

  Realising that Zoleka had seen through him the whole time, the writer poured himself another whiskey and made his way to the kitchen to forage for something to eat. He found leftovers in the microwave. Creamy samp and tripe. After taking a whiff to ensure it was still edible, he pushed a button and gave the appliance time to warm up the meal. He returned briefly to the living room to put on the song from their first dance as Mr and Mrs Ndala: “Emlanjeni” by Mafikizolo. He turned up the volume and poured another whiskey, holding it close to his chest as he danced, pretending the drink was Zoleka.

  When the music died, he was alone again in a big, fancy house on a Friday night.

  He ate and showered for the first time in two days. There, with hot water streaming down his face for cover, he allowed himself for the first time to cry – to grieve for his dead marriage. He imagined how his life would be like without Zoleka. Without the sound of the twins filling the corridors. He chastised himself for worrying about what people would say. He had only himself to blame for turning the Ndalas into a “celebrity couple”, a product consumed by the general public. And now they, the public, were coming to feast on the remains of the relationship. By way of tabloid gossip rags, they were coming.

  Suddenly feeling stifled by the steam, he pushed open the shower door and got out of there. A panic attack. He opened the window and gasped for air. Instinctually, he turned to his medicine cabinet and pushed past the Xanax and anti-depressants. In the back of the cabinet he saw it, the silver shimmering. Inside it his magical pills. Just the mere sight caused his heart rate to begin slowing to normal. He popped one Speedom tablet and slid down to the floor, waiting for it to take effect.

  He needed to write, the only thing that over the years kept him from losing his mind completely. The anti-depressants and anxiolytics – literal “chill pills” – never quite worked for him. He also hated how they clouded his mind and made him sluggish. But in Speedom he’d found a better medicinal compound. It did not steal his joy. Quite the opposite. The pill illuminated the way back to the only treatment that calmed his nerves and lifted his mood: writing.

  Rising from the bathroom floor he dressed hurriedly. In the living room he traded the depressing soundtrack from his wedding night for slow-jams from the 2000s. He danced to his laptop and plopped himself down. Feeling life in his body again, he continued work on the script.

  Fade in

  EXT. – ZONE 12 STREET – DAY

  [Later that day, Thato excitedly takes to the streets with his camera. His face does not show the mixture of anxiety and curiosity that flourishes inside him. He takes pictures of members of the community, and a few shots of the different sections of the neighbourhood. Thato takes a few more snaps of the dodgy shebeens selling uMqombothi, and the street corners used by Knoxmen (local gambling administrators) as casinos. He can hear the loud stereo speakers blasting music from different houses. The passing cars are also blaring their music, and Thato notices the Doppler effect on the sounds as they drive into the distance. He sees some taxi drivers in a foul mood and gets barked at by those dogs that are always running loose in the neighbourhood. Thato also takes some nice shots of the fruit and veg vendors and the locals standing outside the fast food containers waiting for their orders. No one is really paying attention to what he is doing, except for one odd-looking pantsula guy at the car wash who then decides to approach Thato. He is intrigued by this newcomer with a camera.]

  Smurf: Hola, young blood. That camera of yours looks expensive. So be careful how you handle it around here.

  Thato (with a look of trepidation): Oh, sorry man. Look, I’m not looking for trouble. So, if I disturbed you …

  Smurf: No, no. relax, young blood. It’s a free country. If you want to shoot videos or take photos, just make sure you include me. And only capture my right side. It’s the best side. Smooth and scar-free.

  Thato (still uncertain): Okay. But the pictures and footage I need are for a project I am working on. I’m just doing research for my shows. To give them that kasi flavour, you know?

  Smurf: Oh, so you are like that Tyler Perry guy, huh? And if its kasi flavour you want, I know all about the Knorrox that you can put in your curry of curiosity.

  Thato: Er … what?

  Smurf: “What?” is not the question you should be asking me. The real question here is “Who?” Who am I? The name is Doctor Motsitsi. Yes, I’m a doctor as well. Myself, Doctor Khumalo, Doctor Malinga and even Dr. Dre went to the same university of life.

  Thato: Sho. Nice to meet you, Doctor.

  Smurf (with exaggerated gestures): But you can call me Smurf. A boy so fly only God can touch me. Fashion is my religion, no brand blasphemy. I carry this hood on my back like I’m part of a secret fraternity.

  Thato (confused again): What?

  Smurf: Wake up, young blood! That’s my private number. My praise poetry. Boy, I’m the number one hustler, I know how to grind. I could step on grapes, put them in water and tell you it’s wine. No one can stop me from taking a bite from the rich pie. Even if its leftovers, I still got to eat, right? That’s my introduction. So, who are you?

  Thato: My name is Thato. From Northcliff. And I think you are just the guy I have been looking for. The ideal case study.

  Smurf: And you have finally found me, young blood. Everyone is looking for me. From the police to the baby mamas demanding child support. I know everything about the hood. Even Google knows it’s got nothing on this guy when it comes to knowledge.

  Thato (laughs): Yeah, right. But I would really appreciate you
r input and help as a tour guide.

  Smurf: No problem! Let’s do lunch. Let’s get some spyzozo also known as skhambane. You’re buying of course.

  Thato: Sure. Food is the best place to start if you want to know more about people and their area, right?

  Smurf: You’re catching on, my friend. A McDonald’s Big Mac can’t touch our Skamburger, you feel me?

  Thato: So, it’s that good huh?

  Smurf: It tastes better than I can explain. It is food for the soul. It keeps us grounded, and by that I’m referring to the afternoon nap it forces us to take. We use this moment of sleep to connect with our ancestors.

  Thato (laughing): Okay, cool.

  Smurf: It will get a lot cooler when I start showing you where to pick up the hood’s finest women, young blood. You got time, right?

  Thato: Sure. Plenty.

  Smurf: Alright then. But first … (He looks back, waves and whistles to one his associates) Hey, Lucky! Look after my stock there. I am going for a walk. (To Thato) Shap. Let’s go.

  Thato: So, you’re a businessman too?

  Smurf: Yeah. I earn a living in an honest way. I also work with these young boys to keep them out of trouble. Just doing my bit to inject some sense into them and get them high on determination instead of drugs.

  Thato: That’s very cool of you.

  Smurf: And I wish I could do more, young blood. Nyaope and burglaries are a serious problem here. Smash and grabs happen all the time. So, keep your eyes peeled. Trust no one.

  Thato: Dude, you’re starting to scare me now.

  Smurf: Relax, man. If that ever happens to you, just tell them that your Smurf’s son. They will understand.

  Thato: What? Are you, like, the Godfather around here or something?

  Smurf: Let’s go to a food container around the corner there and I will tell you all you need to know.

  [Smurf leads the way, babbling on about his experiences. Thato follows.]

  Fade out

  Twenty

  Faded Stars

  “COME ON, YOU useless rust bucket!”

  Bandile snarled at the jalopy. He tried again to get the car to start. The engine whooped and coughed like a phlegmatic old man, then died an unceremonious death, with black smoke billowing out of the exhaust pipe. When he tried to turn the key again he was greeted by nothing but an ominous click-clack-sound.

  He was glad to see the scrap towed away. He hoped to never see it again, but it was his only means of transport. He’d have to find money to fix it. In that moment, he felt sorry for himself and regretted trading in his sleek sports car for a hunk of junk, no matter how noble his intentions.

  Pulling himself together, he began to walk to the nearest bus stop. He’d been on his way to the shops to buy food. He’d eaten all there was in the house.

  A taxi stopped for him and he gladly got aboard.

  There were fewer than ten passengers inside. Bandile sat by the window in the last row, avoiding eye contact. He hoped no one would recognise him. He looked out at the world passing by, thinking about his old life, his private heaven, before he fell to this hell.

  An alert on his phone popped him out of his self-pitying. He pulled the device out of his pocket and checked. No calls. No messages. It was just an alert that a new software update was available. The device had been otherwise silent since he dropped off the grid. Even Kulani seemed to have given up calling.

  The driver sent back Bandile’s R100, asking for a smaller note. The ride was only R13 to get to the nearest shopping complex and the driver didn’t have enough change. The fare was higher than in his old college days but was still dirt cheap, at least to someone like Bandile.

  His mind was also racing. He’d taken another one of his magical pills like he’d come to do regularly in the mornings. Ideas were coming to him as he gazed out of the window. He pulled out a pocket journal that he carried with him wherever he went, just for moments of inspiration such as this one.

  He closed his eyes and imagined the scene. Slowly the loud Maskandi music that was playing in the taxi began to fade away. Bandile’s pen began to move.

  Fade in

  INT. – SEBOKENG HOSPITAL, WARD 19 – DAY

  [The next day, most members of the Fruits of Faith church come together and take a hired micro-bus to see their wounded brother during visiting hours. The Clap and Tap choir sings another soul-soothing song, evoking the holy spirit in Reverend Thebe. He starts preaching.]

  Rev. Thebe: Hold it right there my choir, and can I please get an “Amen”?

  Church members: Amen!

  Rev. Thebe: Thank you, brothers and sisters. Now, we are gathered here today to witness one of God’s great miracles. Here we are witnessing how the Lord’s mercy and grace is like a river that will never run dry. Here we are seeing how six bullet wounds almost took away God’s child, but I am certain death is now throwing tantrums and a having a fit over how it failed to claim Mazibuko’s life. So, believe me when I tell you that the man lying on this bed will rise again and continue to perform his noble duties as a law enforcer that epitomises true justice. Now, let’s bow our heads, and pray for brother Mazib.

  Pen out of ink, Bandile groaned audibly, loud enough for some passengers to turn to look at him. He stared back, thinking he had been busted. He expected those familiar words to come from one of their lips any minute now: “Hey, aren’t you Bandile Ndala?”

  But each of them turned to face forward again, without as much as a peep. The writer was stunned. Had he been forgotten that quickly? The entertainment news cycle churns like an industrial washing machine, but, instead of cleaning, it muddies reputations as a form of public entertainment. His turn in it was over, and he’d been spat out and forgotten.

  He shook his head and returned to the more urgent problem at hand. His pen. He scratched at the top part of the page, hoping to draw out the last of the ink. A few scratches did the trick. He wrote a little faster, hoping to record as much as the dying pen would allow.

  Fade to:

  EXT. – SEBOKENG HOSPITAL – DAY

  [In the hospital parking area, everyone is boarding the micro-bus. Bass stops Thato as he’s about to get in.]

  Bass: Hold up, mshana, let me talk to you … (Pulls Thato to the side) Mshana, I need you to take my car and drop off the Xabas and Granny Sekete. They are our church’s senior members and need to be transported all the way to their homes. I have asked Pinky to go with you help and with directions.

  Thato: Sure. No problem, Uncle.

  Bass (gives Thato the keys): Thank you. I’ll see you when you get home.

  Fade to:

  INT. – CAR – DAY

  [The seniors are now in the backseat of the car. Pinky joined Thato in the front.]

  Thato: So, Pinky, I—

  Pinky: Khethiwe. Please, call me Khethiwe.

  Thato: Okay. Khethiwe. I’ll try to remember that.

  Cut to:

  [A shot of the car pulling out of parking lot and driving out of the hospital yard.]

  Thato: You know, you’re the only one who hasn’t asked me what I think of Sebokeng.

  Pinky: I don’t need to. Your being here can only mean that you’re still having a good time.

  Thato (impressed): Hmm. Good observation.

  Pinky: Simple common sense. Nothing special.

  Thato: Come on, can’t a guy pay you a compliment?

  Pinky: Sure, he can. As long as it’s not corny.

  Thato: Then I’ll write you a poem next time.

  Pinky: That would be great. And I just happen to know the perfect place where you could recite it.

  Thato: Really? Where?

  Pinky: At the Art Junction. It’s a place where all kinds of artists meet to share music, visual art and poetry. We have a session tomorrow night at eight.

  Thato: Wait. Are you serious?

  Pinky: Yes. Or were you kidding about writing me the poem?

  Thato: Yeah … No. I mean … I love writing and reciting.

 
Cut to:

  [The backseat, where the Xabas and granny Sekete are sitting.]

  Mrs. Xaba (to Mr. Xaba): Do you still remember how you used to write poems and love letters to me, dear?

  Mr. Xaba (leans in closer): What did you say?

  Mrs. Xaba (repeats louder): Do you still remember how you used to write poems and love letters to me?

  Mr. Xaba: Oh, yes … When?

  Cut to Thato and Pinky

  Thato: So, how long have you been with the choir?

  Pinky: About a year. I joined them full-time after completing my business and marketing course at college. It wasn’t long before I was made lead singer.

  Thato: You guys must practise really hard to sound the way you do. One could swear that you’ve been singing together for years.

  Pinky: Well, any type of art requires dedication to achieve perfection. Clap and Tap music fully embraces artistic expression. Everyone has the freedom to do what they want with our songs, while maintaining the core structure of a Clap and Tap composition.

  Thato: Interesting. You just made me want to know more about this genre of music. In fact, the world needs to hear this sound. Ever thought about recording?

  Pinky: We talk about it now and then. But there are other things we need to focus on first. Like raising the bar even further if we want to win the Clap and Tap choir explosion. It’s an event that takes place at the Mphatlalatsane Theatre. Every year, choirs compete for a grand cash prize. Our church needs to win it in order to make enough money to buy our own building.

  Thato: Oh yeah. My uncle did mention that competition some time ago. When is it taking place again?

  Pinky: In three weeks. Preparations are coming along nicely, but bra Bass feels that we need some fresh ideas that will make our performance stand out.

  Thato: How about adding a bit of poetry in a form of rap verses?