Pinky: It could work. But I really don’t know. I’ll ask bra Brass about it.
Cut to:
[A shot of the car passing a big advertising billboard as the sun seems to slowly set behind it.]
Fade to:
[The dashboard clock reads 18:38. Thato has dropped off all the church seniors. He’s almost at Pinky’s house. The conversation is flowing.]
Thato: … you’ve got it all wrong. Not every man buys a woman something nice expecting a reward. I can prove it right now. Let’s turn this car around and go out for dinner?
Pinky (laughing): Better luck next time. I have to go cook for my dad.
Thato: Then let’s order takeaways for him. I’m sure he won’t mind having a different bite just this once.
Pinky: No, my father loves homemade meals. Especially when I make them. He says the food reminds him of my mom. She passed away two years ago.
Thato: Oh. I am sorry to hear that.
Pinky: It’s cool. And sorry about your mom, too. I remember Reverend Thebe saying something about bra Bass’s only sister’s funeral a couple of months ago.
Thato: Thanks … (He stops the car outside her house.) Home sweet home.
Pinky (checks her watch): Looks like I made it just in time to go buy a couple of veggies from the supermarket.
Thato: Want me to drive you there? I don’t mind, really.
Pinky: Hmm. No thank you. I’ll manage. But don’t forget about the Art Junction session after choir practice.
Thato: I’ll see you then.
Pinky: Okay. Bye.
[Pinky gets out of the car. Thato drives back home.]
Twenty-One
Pushing On
HOME AGAIN, THE writer immediately set down the satchel of bread, eggs and canned beans. He raced to his computer and transferred the scribbled text in his notebook into the main document. Five fresh pages of text. He beamed.
In his glory days, the man could produce three scripts a day, with enough time to spare to ghostwrite a handful of biographies for celebrities, sportsmen and politicians. But now, even with the Speedom, he felt like he was wrestling with every word. The magical pill just skewed the odds of victory massively in his favour.
He massaged the back of his neck with one hand and raised his other wrist to check the time: 3:07pm.
Outside, a thunder storm raged, unusual for the cold season. He’d made it home from the shops in time to be spared a soaking on the same day as a car break down. Lightning cut through the grey sky, followed closely by thunder that shook the windows. The sound made him think of a starting gun.
On your marks, set, go. He had to keep going.
He’d amassed enough of the script to know he was not going to enjoy the final production. It was one of those projects he was creating without sentiment. He was doing it for the money. On demand. A hired pen. The final job – then retirement. After this script, he planned to downgrade his expensive lifestyle and find some other way to express himself creatively. He knew the only thing the script would touch were his own pockets and that of his paymasters, and not the audiences. He was selling out, for the last time. With this last job he’d free himself of his corporate bosses, return to his roots as an artist and have a stash to provide for the twins.
There was something he’d begun to enjoy about being back at the bottom: the return of his hunger for artistic integrity. He thought it was something he lost in his ascent to the top, but now it was back. It gnawed at him as he worked on this project. An itch he could not scratch. Not yet. But soon.
For now, he had to dance like a marionette for the boys with the big bucks.
In his younger, more naïve days, as he felt himself compromising on the principles of storytelling that he taught his students, he used to fantasise about staging a revolution in the industry. About building a media empire that produced stories for black people and not about them. That fantasy crashed on the rocks of the realities of where true power lies in media and entertainment – and it’s not, alarmingly, in the hands of the creative talent.
The emotional distance he felt from his final project made him feel more at ease. He felt more in charge of his fate, for the first time in longer than he could remember. He was going to make this turd of a script shine. He was going to produce something audiences would chew for a while and spit out like gum, having derived no value to their lives from the experience. But he was determined to infuse it with a lingering taste, one that could lead audience members curious enough towards grappling with the complexities of being alive.
Bandile was going to make sure that nothing about this script was going to be easily dismissible or without purpose. The flaws were going to wear disguises and fit into the plot to tell a layered, more nuanced story than it would seem upon first reading.
With the storm not letting up outside, Bandile took another Speedom and set about the task of seeing through his vision.
Fade in
INT. – ART JUNCTION – NIGHT
[The place is packed. The kasi smell of earthy dust and smoke from coal stoves and cars is kept at bay by the lekker aroma of the grilled meat from the chesa-nyama outside the venue. Poets, dancers, musicians and supporters of the arts occupy the round tables and chairs. The MC makes an energetic entrance and recites a short opening piece before calling the first act up to the stage.]
MC: The Art Junction. An artist’s paradise. This is the place musicians come to water the gardens of our minds with words. Thoughts of poets take flight, going on adventures that Peter Pan would be envious of. It’s also a place where guys and girls get together to share good food. Welcome to the Art Junction.
[The crowd applauds]
MC: Alright, guys. Now if you feel that you have seen enough beard and muscle on this stage, then my first act is what you’re looking for. Please give it up for Pinky!
[A rumble of anticipation spreads through the house. Thato watches as Pinky starts playing her guitar. She is playing a deep and meaningful melody that wraps itself around the audience. The lyrics of her song are easy on the ear. She has the audience under her symphonic spell right until her fingers strum the last chord. The crowd embraces the performance with whistles and applause. Pinky then goes back to join Thato at their table.]
Pinky: So … how was it for you?
Thato (referring to his meal): Oh, the meat is great. The salad and gravy had me ordering seconds.
Pinky (chuckles): No, man. Don’t be like that. You know I meant my performance. How was it?
Thato: I know what you meant. And it was amazing. You truly are gifted.
Pinky: Thanks. My dad taught me everything I know. Music is in the family’s blood. In fact, it is what founded it in the first place. My mom and dad were in the same church choir back in the day.
Thato: My parents also met at church. Dad used to teach me how to play the piano back when I was a little kid. I remember how I used to try playing the right notes, only to drop the T-E-S in notes and end up with a big no.
Pinky: Were you really that bad?
Thato: No, not just bad. I was audibly lethal.
[At that moment, another guy comes over to their table.]
Molefi: Eey … what’s up guys!
Pinky: Hi, BK. What are you doing here?
Molefi: Come on now, girl. I no longer use that nickname. My days as a young hip-hop producer from Zone 16 are long gone. Beat-Killa is no more. Just call me by my real name, Molefi.
Pinky: Sorry, big guy. But you made a name for yourself as Beat-Killa and that’s who a lot of people around here know you as. It’s not my problem that you now want to build a more mature reputation as Molefi. Plus, you didn’t answer my question. Are you scouting again?
Molefi: You know me. And what better place than our very own Art Junction?
Pinky: Anyway, let me introduce you to a friend of mine. BK, this is Thato. He’s bra Solly’s nephew from out of town. I am showing him around. And Thato, this is Beat-Killa. A talent scout and PR for New Magic records.
> Thato (shaking Molefi’s hand): Nice to meet you, man. I’m a fan of some of the iconic artists New Magic has produced over the years.
Molefi: We appreciate the love and support, my guy. And your uncle is a music giant around here. (To Pinky) So, madam. Have you thought about my offer yet?
Pinky: Oh, not this again. I told you, BK. I need a little more time.
Molefi: No, pressure, sweetheart. But I do need an answer soon. My bosses might think I am losing my touch. Comin’ up with bogus artists and all.
Pinky: I’m sure it won’t come to that. They know you are good at what you do.
Molefi: I just want to make you a star. There’s a place for talent like yours in show business. Anyway, let me leave y’all. See you around. Pinky: Later, BK.
[Molefi exits the scene.]
Thato: Is he offering you a record deal?
Pinky: Yep. And he won’t take no for an answer. I love music, but I don’t really fancy the idea of making it a career.
Thato: But why? I can’t think of anyone who would pass up an opportunity to work with one of the top music labels in Mzansi.
Pinky: Because the deal comes with a little more than just recording and performances. There’s the spotlight life. Good and bad publicity. Being exploited. The drugs. Long hours on the road, weeks away from home. I can’t just leave my dad all alone.
Thato: What about when you get married?
Pinky: I am sure my partner and I will make a plan.
Thato: So … like, are you in a relationship currently?
Pinky: Yeah. Long distance. He works in the Eastern Cape. It’s such a drag. And what about you? Got anyone waiting for you back home?
Thato: Well … I am in a similar situation. She’s in China. Studying Environmental Engineering. We see each other once a year.
Pinky: Eish, that sucks. And how do you keep the relationship alive? Because the whole “being worlds apart” thing can really rock the boat, you know.
Thato: That’s true. But there’s nothing we can do about it. (Sigh) Anyway, back to you … The recording deal.
Pinky: Nah, man. Not that again.
Thato: I think you should do it. Become a musician. Think long term; you could have your own record, as an account of what you thought of life at a particular moment in time. It’s about more than just audio signals that you could play back when you are older. It’s about you contributing your views to the pages of history. Being involved in the process of eternal creation. It’s about sharing the present’s knowledge which will be interpreted by future generations as wisdom. Simply put, you are being offered the opportunity to shape people’s worldviews. And I think you should take it.
Pinky: And I said I will think about it. There’s really no need to sound like a New Magic representative right now. Let’s just pause the subject for a while and enjoy the show, alright?
Thato: Yes, you’re right. So, who’s the next performer? Another poet?
Pinky: Nope. The next guy is a very talented beat boxer by the name of Banger Beats. (Looking to the stage) Here he comes.
Cut to:
[Wide shot as the whole place applauds to welcome the next act to the stage.]
Cut to:
INT. – MOFOKENG RESIDENCE – NIGHT
[Two old friends and neighbours are popping black-labelled bottles of a cold and golden liquid that refreshes the body at the end of a long day. There is a raucous concoction of sounds in the dim living room: intermittent ill-mannered burping, the stereo playing Clap and Tap music, laughter, and loud conversations about life.]
Bass: … is waar, bra Shakes! A man is incomplete until he is married. Then he is finished.
Shakes (belches): I am with you on that one my brother. I remember when my late wife and I were at the district clerk’s office for our marriage certificate. After giving the vital information – you know the names, dates of birth and so on – the clerk handed me our license and said, “No refunds, no exchanges, no warranties.”
Bass (laughs): You know, before my ex-wife and I separated, we tried to get some counselling. It was a bad idea, my brother. I remember how she used to tell the marriage counsellor that I led a dog’s life. (Imitating a woman’s voice) “He comes in the house with muddy feet and walks across my clean floors. Barks at nothing, and growls at his food and makes himself comfortable on our best furniture.”
Shakes (laughs hysterically): Well, love may be blind, but marriage is an eye-opener.
Bass: That’s right my friend. We sure had our fair share of the “sacred institution” pie. But let’s forget about marriage and focus on the best things in life: good music and great beer.
Shakes: You said it, man. Even Benjamin Franklin said, “Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.” Amen.
Bass: And music is … (clears throat) music is proof that God actually exists, you know. It is the universal language He uses to communicate with various nations. The well-arranged sounds that talk to us and appeal to our emotions.
Shakes: Right on, my brother. But it’s a shame that the kids today think of it as a way to make a quick buck. They love the money more than the art. All I hear in songs nowadays is loud noises and catchy choruses.
Bass: No wonder there are so many one-hit-wonders. Here today, gone tomorrow. You see, these kids lack the love. And without love in the music, the song’s relevance will wither away when trends change. Today’s hit is forgotten three months down the line.
Shakes: Things are not what they used to be. Quality is constantly compromised. Wait until they change our favourite beer too.
Bass: Well, then. In case it happens tomorrow, let’s drink these remaining bottles to the latter.
Shakes: And not even a single drop should be wasted.
[And with that, the gentlemen raise their glasses and drink on.]
Cut to:
INT. – BASS’S CAR – NIGHT
[Pinky and Thato are sitting in a car outside the Art Junction gates, chatting.]
Pinky: … that was one of the best sessions in a while. I am quite pleased with my performance tonight. The other acts also rocked the place too. What did you think about the whole thing?
Thato: The show was incredible. I had a wonderful time. And you were great on stage.
Pinky: I am glad you liked it. I love performing. Being on stage makes me feel so … alive. And when people appreciate or praise my work, it inspires me to always do better than before.
Thato: How can anyone not appreciate you? You’re smart, talented and beautiful.
Pinky (playfully): And you’re not too bad yourself, handsome.
[An incoming call cuts through the moment, shattering Thato’s window of opportunity.]
Thato (answers the phone): Hello, dad.
[Split screen – we see molemo on the phone and thato in the car.]
Molemo: Son, you haven’t called me in two days. Is everything okay?
Thato: I’m fine, old man. Sorry for making you worry.
Molemo: And how is your project going? Are you almost ready to come home?
Thato: Well … (looks at Pinky) It’s going. I’m making steady progress.
Molemo: Well get it done already. It’s not safe there.
Thato: Come on, dad, it’s not as bad as you think it is.
Molemo: My boy, I know all about townships. I lived in one. Just hurry up and finish so you can get out of there. By the way, in which township are doing this project of yours again?
Thato: Dad, I’m getting another call. Mind if I call you back later? Bye.
Molemo: Thato, wait. You haven’t—
Thato: Got to go, now. I’ll talk to you soon. Bye. (Hangs up)
[Normal screen]
Thato (looks at Pinky and chuckles): Parents. You know how they are. Now, where were we?
Pinky: The show. Your favourite moment.
Thato: Plus, you said I’m handsome. Don’t forget that part.
Pinky (rolls her eyes): Yes, that too.
Thato
: Ah, come on. Is that all you can say?
Pinky: I got nothing else. You took all the good words and used them up as compliments.
Thato: But you’re a writer. Putting words together is your speciality. You could at least freestyle about me. Or better yet, how about we do something official together?
Pinky: What do you mean?
Thato: I’m saying we could prepare a nice piece together and perform it at the next Art Junction session.
Pinky (shrugs): Could work.
Thato: And I just thought of a brilliant stage name.
Pinky: What?
Thato: It is based on our other names. Pinky and Brian. It will be like the odd partnership between two of the best cartoon characters of all time, Pinkie and the Brain.
Pinky: Are you serious?
Thato: What, you don’t like it?
Pinky: Yeah. One is a genius and the other is an insane idiot. So, what does that say about us?
Thato (sniggers): You’re right, I forgot about that part. We can change it. I just think it would be cool if we perform together.
Pinky (pauses): I will think about it.
Thato: And while you’re at it, there’s something else I think you should wrap your thoughts around. That New Magic record deal.
Pinky (somewhat annoyed): Okay, Thato. Just how much are these guys paying you to keep reminding me about their offer?
Thato: I just think you’re playing it too safe. Fame and fortune don’t drive every artist crazy. And you strike me as a well-disciplined person who knows what she wants.
Pinky: Yes, but I kinda feel like I will be selling my soul to the game. The mainstream scene is full of female eye-candy artists that achieve commercial success by selling a sexy image, not necessarily good music. I don’t want to be part of that. I want to be respected and appreciated for my talent rather than my looks. I want to make music that touches people’s lives. That’s all.
Thato: I hear you. Tell you what, let’s do something that involves nothing but your talent. Let’s record a track with the choir. It will also help you get a feel of what it will be like once you go professional. We’ll do it in the school hall. I can organise a simple setup. Hire a mic, use the recording software on my laptop and get an expert to mix and master it.
The Last Sentence Page 13
