The Last Sentence

by Tumelo Buthelezi

  Pinky: Sounds like you’ve done this before.

  Thato: I used to help my friends record their mix-tapes back in the day. It’s been a while, but I think I’ve still got my Midas music touch. So, what do you say?

  Pinky (pauses to ponder): Sure. It might be fun.

  Thato: Sweet. I’ll get started with the arrangements and take care of everything. All for a nominal fee.

  Pinky (laughs): I am not giving you a cent, mister.

  Thato: Alright. But don’t forget to mention me when you receive your first award, okay?

  Pinky: You got it.

  Thato: Cool. Now, let me take you home before your father starts to worry about you.

  As the digital ink swept away the emptiness from the screen, Bandile took a moment to print and read aloud the previous page.

  He was no actor – but the words sounded hollow and the dialogue somewhat flat. He read it several more times, hoping it would grow on him, like one of those grating pop songs that people hate but catch themselves singing. Like an earworm.

  Hunched over his desk and trying to use his voice to will his dead words to life, he noticed one crimson drop fall onto the page. Then another. He wiped his nose. Blood. He hated the sight of blood, even his own. As he reached for tissues he noticed that his head ached. So did his spine. Every movement felt laboured, in fact.

  He checked the time. He’d spent 8 hours straight, writing and revising.

  Were these symptoms his body telling him to stop?

  Even if they were, his mind was too laden with ideas. There was no way he could rest, not peacefully. He’d spend the entire time lying in bed, writing and re-writing whole scenes in his head, and fighting the urge not to scramble back to his desk before the words disappeared from his visual cortex.

  He made a mental note to take a break in a couple of hours.

  With a tissue bundled up in his nose, he sat again at his desk, as his fingers moved over the keyboard. The ideas poured from his mind to the keyboard quickly, the magical pill working with a potency he’d never experienced before. He continued to write and revise well past the two-hour limit he’d set himself, into the night, not getting up once, until a yellow haze began to colour the horizon.

  EXT. – ZONE 12 STREETS – DAY

  [Thato is with Smurf doing field work again. They spend the day talking and taking pictures of the area’s marvellous mixture of formal infrastructure and informal establishments set up by car washers, hawkers and the local Knoxmen.]

  Smurf: So, tell me, young blood. What do you Sandton sardines and Northcliff nerds get up to besides debating diamond prices while sipping on the white man’s finest poison?

  Thato (chuckles): Come on man. Our lives are not as golden as people think. We also do simple things like going out to the movies, chilling at the park or at the mall.

  Smurf: You regard that as keeping it simple? Then I can’t begin to imagine what you guys do when you blow the budget. I can only afford to do those things on a special day for a special lady. For a guy like me, bootleg DVDs are the closest thing I have to a cinema experience. Service delivery is still a bit slow in this part of town, so we don’t have nice parks and what-what. I just chill with my girls at my shack or at the car wash.

  Thato (sarcastically): Very smooth, Casanova. But I’m sure you can be a little more creative than that?

  Smurf: Of course I can. But I won’t go the distance for these chicks. Besides, they need to understand that the hustle is real. You show them a good time with the money, they think you are Lonmin and want to be gold diggers. But not all of them are that easy to win over. I got respect for such women. Like that Pinky Zondi chick.

  Thato: Wait. You know Pinky?

  Smurf: Who doesn’t know that sweet-voiced sista! She’s hot, huh?

  Thato: She’s nice.

  Smurf (hands weaving signs to describe): Those lips, hips and thighs make something on my body rise, and it’s not just my body temperature.

  Thato: … okay. Let’s talk—

  Smurf: She’s a truck with a big trailer, dawg! She can back it up and park it on my lap any day.

  Thato: I hear you. But we haven’t—

  Smurf: I am telling you, young blood. That thing makes men cry more than onions do. It’s an atomic booty bomb, and a girl with features like that is hard to find, like Bin Laden.

  Thato: I said I get it, man. Now enough about that. Pinky is a lady with class. So watch what you say about her.

  Smurf: Oh … I see … I see that little twinkle in your eye. You like her, right? Well, lucky for you, I know all there is to know about women. Including her kind. You should—

  Thato: Forget it, Smurf. Besides, I am in a relationship with someone else.

  Smurf: Is that the only problem?

  Thato: And she also has a man.

  Smurf: Your point?

  Thato: There’s no way we can be together. I belong to someone and so does she.

  Smurf: Belong to someone? You’re starting to sound like a slave. If you want to—

  Thato (changing the subject): Tell me about that open space over there instead. It looks like some kind of recreational area.

  Smurf: Oh you don’t want my advice, huh? Fine. Be like that (waving dismissively). And you are right. That place used to be a park with swings, a merry-go-round and jungle gyms.

  Thato: What happened?

  Smurf: These nyaope boys, man. They steal anything made of metal and sell it as scrap for a fix. They took the swings and everything else made of similar material. What remained had to be reduced to the emptiness you see right now.

  Thato: That’s a real shame, man.

  Smurf: Yeah. But don’t worry about the kids being bored. You see those bricks on the side of the road? With a bit of imagination, these kids play with them as if they were toy cars, chairs and so on. And speaking of bricks, you should throw one at Pinky’s boyfriend.

  Thato: What? Why would I want to hurt him like that?

  Smurf: Not literally. Around here, “throwing a brick” means you steal a partner from an active relationship. Make Pinky your girl.

  Thato (sighs): I don’t know man.

  Smurf: Everyone does it. I’ve been hit with a couple and thrown a few myself. It’s a simple principle of “adopt or cry”.

  Thato: Adopt or cry?

  Smurf: Yeah. You either adopt that girl and make her yours or suffer the loss to a more deserving guy and cry over it.

  Thato (chuckles): Let’s keep moving man.

  Smurf: Think about it, young blood. You know I am right.

  Thato: You know, I have noticed how you keep calling me “young blood”. Do you still remember my real name?

  Smurf: Don’t insult my good memory. How can I forget a simple name like Shaun?

  Thato: It’s “Thato”.

  Smurf (pauses): Oh … but I am also right. Everyone knows Thato translates to Shaun.

  Thato: No, it doesn’t.

  Smurf: Young blood, this is my hood. This place is The Matrix to you, and I am Morpheus. I know all the rules. I co-wrote the local constitution. So, when I tell you Thato means Shaun, you best believe okay?

  Thato: So, I guess Smurf translates to … “short”, huh?

  Smurf (laughs): Oh, the kid has jokes now?

  Thato: I have a good teacher. Learning from the knowledgeable doctor.

  Smurf: Nice save. And you better tell your white friends about me. I want them to invite me to one of them sushi parties. And you can also bring them here to have a taste of our stuff – Umqombothi.

  Thato: That’s not such a bad idea, hey. It would be pretty cool seeing a white guy drinking African beer and it not being Mr Bones or Johnny Clegg.

  [They both laugh as they walk on.]

  Twenty-Two

  The Lull

  INITIALLY, BANDILE WAS just doing it for the money. But thanks to the drug, the determination to make statements with substance had begun to stir in him once more.

  His hunger was persuading him
to make this comeback a triumphant return. He was more than eager to make the project blow up. He couldn’t afford another dud.

  But the problem with making a living off of your passion is that sometimes productivity has to wait until you have the right feeling. Acclaimed artists were always cautious, sifting a project until only the perfect pieces remained. One such as Bandile would often stare at a blank page for hours until he found the proper words. He was always pushing himself to the limit. Running a never-ending race to be ahead of the competition. Working on ideas that would best represent his unparalleled genius.

  This of course came with some social anxiety. The fear of falling short was born from the knowledge that every artist was judged by what they had done before. Your recent output will be compared to your opus. This made the ghosts of Bandile’s past inescapable.

  Bandile’s work always looked like years of sleepless days and tireless hours searching for perfection. He’d never write for the sake of small sparks. He was after the full flame. He was not like those creatives whose work is born of complete instinct. For them, there’s no overthinking or scepticism.

  Not Bandile though. He was after quality. He was the type of player that always wanted to hit home runs. He wanted his work to be that first drop of rain we all notice, not the millions indistinguishable in the downpour. He wanted to set trends, not follow them – to create pieces of work that film and media studies professors would cite as the pivotal work that set a genre down an entirely different path.

  The downside is that you don’t decide what the public will consider a masterpiece. Sometimes, a project you as an artist dislike will become your most successful, while what you are most proud of is ignored. It was what it was.

  His thoughts were distracted by the doorbell. He tried to ignore it, but whomever was ringing it was persistent. Annoyed, Bandile rose to his feet and rush to the door to get rid of the visitor.

  He swung the door open, ready to shout like the cantankerous old man he was becoming. But the sight that greeted him at the door took his voice and hushed his anger.

  The woman looked like she’d walked to his door straight from the cover of an X-rated magazine. Flowing ginger hair, red lips, curvy body wrapped in a black lace top and a short blue skirt.

  “You must be Bandile,” she said. “I’m Lolli. Your agent sent me.”

  Bandile ushered her in without asking any questions or saying another word. Kulani had sent a treat instead of a trick this time to inspire him.

  “Nice place,” Lolli said.

  “Thank you,” he replied. “Something to drink?”

  She half turned at the threshold of the first door on her left, the main bedroom. “Make it hot and strong. Bring it to the bedroom. And don’t keep me waiting,” she said.

  Bandile prepared a brandy on the rocks for her and a whiskey, neat, for himself.

  In the bedroom he found his playmate sitting on the bed, with her adult toys. Scented lubricants and a short plastic rod.

  “The service has already been paid for,” she said.

  Bandile nodded approvingly. He closed his eyes and said a silent thank you to Kulani. It had been too long since he’d felt a woman’s touch. “What did you say your name was again?” he said.

  The woman said nothing. She smiled seductively. Excited, Bandile clambered on to the bed beside her. His gaze locked onto hers. She brought her face closer to his neck, licked it with a forked tongue. “I own you,” she hissed.

  Bandile jumped up and stumbled away from his desk. He looked around the room. He was alone. He took in a deep breath. It was just a dream. He touched his neck. He could still feel the slimy forked tongue of the seductress against it. It sent goosebumps racing down his skin.

  His grumbling stomach reminded him that he’d had nothing to eat in a while. He stood in the kitchen, considering his options. Make a sandwich, heat frozen pizza, or eat samp and beans from a can? There was also the pill.

  The last one he took tasted like steak, a perfectly cooked soft, tender fillet, in fact. After that, he felt full. He was energised.

  The pill certainly required less effort. He could get back to work immediately, he reasoned.

  He pulled one out and dissolved it in water. Knocking it back, he tasted oxtail stew – rich, creamy, filling. He could even taste the fatty sweetness of the bone marrow.

  He tried not to wonder too much how any of it was possible. He tried not to think about the fact that the pill is all he’d had to eat for four days. Those questions were out of the question, because Bandile suspected they’d lead to answers he didn’t want to hear. Whatever price he was paying with his body, it was worth it for the prize of an inspired, productive mind.

  INT. – SCHOOL HALL – DAY

  [The recording session is going well. All 19 talented individuals convey their remarkable sound synergy by singing one of their most awe-inspiring songs. Pinky, the lead vocalist, puts the cherry on top with a stellar solo. Thato drops a few fresh spoken word bars to the high-spirited hymn. During their 15-minute break, Solly decides to confront Pinky about something that’s been bothering him.]

  [Solly approaches Pinky.]

  Solly: Hey, Pinky.

  Pinky: Hi, Solly. Wow, your cousin is such a genius. And thank you for talking to BK about lending us one of his high-quality studio microphones.

  Solly: Anything to help the choir succeed. After Thato told me about the idea and what we were running short of, I called BK, since we are good friends, and he said we can have it for two hours. Oh, he also told me that he saw you perform at the Art Junction. That’s where you introduced him to Thato, right?

  Pinky: Yeah. And if he sent you to convince me to sign with him, tell him I said no pressure, okay?

  Solly: Nah, he didn’t say anything about that. So, when last did you speak to Tshepo?

  Pinky: Uh … it’s been a while.

  Solly: More than two days?

  Pinky: Maybe. What’s the matter? Did you hear anything bad about him?

  Solly: Oh no. It’s just that I haven’t heard from my best friend in a while and I thought you guys may have spoken recently. So, things are still cool between you two, right?

  Pinky: Yes. Why wouldn’t they be?

  Solly: Well, I know how the endurance of a long distance relationship is constantly tested by external tempting forces and—

  Pinky: Alright, officer Mofokeng. Where are you going with this?

  Solly: Hey, I’m not fishing for any information okay. I’m just looking out for you guys. He’s my best friend and you’re like a sister to me; we all grew up in the same neighbourhood. I know it can get a little lonely without him around, but I’m sure he thinks about you every day. All I am saying is … please be careful. When we spend a lot of time with other people, we become close and get a little attached.

  Pinky: Are you talking about me and Thato?

  Solly: My cousin is a cool guy and I think he likes you. A lot. And he doesn’t have to tell me because I can see it written all over him.

  Pinky (narrows her eyes): So, you think I might cheat on Tshepo with your cousin?

  Solly: I’m saying that you should be careful of your fast-lane friendship. It could lead to things both of you could regret. Plus, a lot of people could get hurt. Tshepo told me about the ring he gave you before he left for Cape Town. You said you needed time, but I know my friend and he probably told his parents about his intentions to propose before he gave that ring to you. Look, I am only saying these things because I care about you all. Just think about it.

  Pinky (walking away): Okay, shap. Now, let’s go back to work.

  Fade to:

  INT. – PHIRI RESIDENCE – DAY

  [Molemo Phiri is sitting behind his big desk in a lavishly furnished room when a tall man wearing a brown topcoat and a matching hat comes and sits in the chair in front of him.]

  Molemo: Jabulani, I want you to find someone for me.

  Jabulani: Who, boss?

  Molemo: My son. He said
he’s doing research in some township in the Vaal.

  Jabulani: When last did you speak to him?

  Molemo: A couple of days ago. I just have this feeling that something is not right about that expedition of his.

  Jabulani: Don’t worry. Leave it to me.

  Molemo: Find out where he is and what is he doing there. Make sure he doesn’t find out that he’s being followed.

  Fade to black

  Twenty-Three

  Roots

  SELF-DOUBT WAS DEBILITATING to Bandile. He felt it creep in as he looked over the latest pages of the clap-and-tap story. The words didn’t sing to him. And the ones that did were flat and out of tune.

  He’d tried to draft them without his special magic pill. The Lolli dream and his all-consuming craving for them tempted him to try. They’d caused him to wonder who was doing all the work – him or the drug. The latest pages only confirmed his worst fear. It was the drug.

  Bandile thought about again resorting to prayer in this time of need.

  But if there is a God, he thought, then He must surely see through such opportunism.

  Instead, for the first time in years, Bandile chose to reach out to his ancestors for help. He got up from his chair, unplugged the phone from the charger, grabbed the car keys and closed the door behind him.

  The drive to the cemetery was a few minutes from his place, a little longer in his repaired but still struggling scrap of a car. A chilling wind whipped across the land of the dead. All manner of tombstone jutted from the ground, from simple crosses to intimidating marble mausoleums.

  Bandile pulled his jacket closed and stepped into the burial ground.

  The grave he was looking for was a short walk away from where he had parked. He dug into his pocket and produced a ball of paper which contained incense. Bandile stood motionless and read the inscription on the headstone.