The Last Sentence

by Tumelo Buthelezi

  He closed his eyes for a few seconds. Then he, the descendant of the Ndala clan, knelt on the ground. He burnt a piece of dried up shrub and sprinkled red power over the ashes. He recited the clan’s praises in isiXhosa, speaking out loud as the son of Duma Ndala, an informal refuse-collector who lived in a small town as a single parent making ends meet. His wife died when Bandile was very young. Many people looked down on him. He was the laughing stock in an already impoverished community; the subject of ridicule for the neighbourhood brats, who mocked him in their kiddies’ songs. They called him names such as Doti-Duma, Basket Boy and Dustbin Donkey.

  But, despite the mockery, the elder Ndala carried himself with pride and loved his son more than anything in the world. He always brought home all sorts of reading material he’d find at the dump, to encourage Bandile to read. It paid off when his son made a career out of the interest in the literary arts. They sometimes foraged together for dinner from the dumpster, but Duma made sure his boy would one day eat well. He worked very hard to support their family. Until he got very sick from the toxic waste he worked with every day. It gradually broke him down. He died at the age of 46.

  Seeing what his father went through and determined not to lead a similar life, Bandile decided that success must always be a priority. He worked hard at school from elementary to tertiary. He picked up the pen to re-write the course of his life. He started out as a young journalist, publishing his first short stories in a couple of community newspapers and local magazines. Eventually he caught the attention of big TV show producers. He built partnerships, made a fortune and reached the top. But now he was back at rock bottom.

  “Please watch over me, father,” Bandile murmured, concluding his request for strength and guidance.

  When he was finished, he got up, turned and headed back to the car, leaving the incense to burn out on his father’s resting place. He had prayed for better days and an elucidated path that would guide his life. Now he was hoping for the best.

  Bandile came home to find another problem. The printer had been acting up again. Irregular servicing had caused it to start malfunctioning. He almost had a stroke when he saw all the pages it was spitting out. Precious ink wasted. He took the wasted paper from the out-tray and went to the shredder.

  Before he dropped them into the hungry machine, he looked through them, to see what gibberish his printer had wasted his money on. Immediately, his jaw fell to the floor. The pages looked like new material. A continuation of the story. But he had no recollection of writing any of it. He checked his computer and sure enough, there were the new words filling more of the blank pages. He searched his memory, but it was all a haze – a fog made of liquor, pills and sleeplessness.

  The writer turned and looked at the wall behind him, on which hung a framed picture of his father.

  He considered for a moment taking it easy on the drinking and the pills. But without them he was hollow.

  Looking again at the picture of his father, he mouthed a wordless thank you.

  INT. – ART JUNCTION – NIGHT

  [The pub is packed for the session as usual. Thato and Pinky are on stage about to perform their prepared set. There’s a muted anticipation in the room and without further hesitation, Thato starts.]

  Thato: I buried my face in an astrology book and learned how to read God’s celestial updates. Yes, I learned how to read what’s on His mind by looking at the messages He posts at night as status updates that don’t receive much likes. And one of them reads: Once upon a time there was the Word, and before It made the world, there was no circle, no round. No sphere, and no sound. Until the Word made matter when It spoke of life, and there came light from darkness and it was bright. The first duality ever made was day and night, then the dry land and the oceans, between them a horizon, all was made in six days of creation. And in that process, there also came something quite important, an imperfect prototype of His ineffable image. And every time things materialised as they should, He made a judgement of value by saying, “It is good”.

  Pinky (playing the guitar and singing the chorus): I see trees of green, red roses too. I see them bloom for me and you. And I think to myself, what a wonderful world. Yes, I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

  Fade to:

  [After the show, Thato and Pinky are walking back home at an idle pace, talking about their performance.]

  Thato: … and as usual, you were amazing on stage.

  Pinky: I get that a lot.

  Thato: But I was brilliant and better.

  Pinky (laughs): Please! My singing and guitar carried the weight of that performance.

  Thato: Dream on. Did you see how enchanted the house was when I delivered that piece? People are still picking their jaws up from the floor.

  Pinky: It wouldn’t kill you to admit that your little candle was set alight by my shine.

  Thato: Look, I know it’s a bitter pill to swallow but you are no longer the Art Junction’s main attraction. I am the future.

  Pinky (softly punches his arm): Whatever, Thato.

  Thato (smirks): Don’t believe me? Fine. Let’s do one more joint piece together and let the crowd decide.

  Pinky: Got a concept?

  Thato: Hmm. Maybe we could … do something simpler. Something catchy and funny. We could do a satire on forbidden love.

  Pinky: Forbidden love?

  Thato: Yeah. A girl from a royal family really likes this commoner, and this guy doesn’t know how to quit. He gives reasons why he likes her. (His fingertips gently stroke Pinky’s arm.) Says stuff like … “I wish your parents would realise this is not a game, even though we play chess on the sunset’s chest. Yes I always check on you, my mate. In corners where our secrets would never escape, just so I can tell how your eyes make my heart lose its cardiac chorus and drum a careless beat. Forgive me but look Minnie: I want to be the Mickey that says something this cheesy to lure you into my Disney.”

  Pinky (she chuckles, her brilliantly shining eyes roaming the planes of his face): Okay, that was some pretty dope freestyling. A bit corny, but interesting.

  Thato: Then maybe I should just let my feelings run with a knife and cut to the chase.

  [Thato’s eyes caress her beautiful profile as his head slowly enters the intimate zone, exploring her essence and taking in the rose fragrance laced around her neck. And when he is just inches away from her strawberry glossed lips …]

  Pinky (pulls her face away from his lips and takes a deep breath): I am sorry, Thato. But we can’t …

  Thato: Come on, Pinky. You can’t deny that we have a connection. Even if it’s wireless like Bluetooth, we nearly exchanged files of feelings—

  Pinky (shakes her head, cuts him off): Stop it. I am being serious right now.

  Thato: So am I. I am being serious about how I feel about you.

  Pinky: But I have a boyfriend who is committed to me. And you are also seeing someone.

  Thato: True. But some sacrifices have to be made for true love to manifest itself.

  Pinky (crossing her arms over her chest): So, what are saying?

  Thato: I am saying what you are also thinking. That we should give us a chance.

  Pinky: Us? There is no us.

  Thato: But we have already connected emotionally. We crossed the line unintentionally. Cheated on our partners on a subconscious level. I am not proud of it, but it’s happening. We can’t deny the strong feelings we have for each other. We are imperfect beings that go through life thinking we know what we want until we find what we really need. You and I share a strong bond that cannot be ignored. So, give it a chance.

  Pinky (sighs): I don’t think that’s a good idea, Thato. It’s too risky to pursue or even explore what we are feeling right now. We might be confusing infatuation for something real. And I don’t want us to hurt other people we care about for nothing. You’re a nice guy. But I don’t think we should be anything more than friends.

  [Pinky reluctantly backs away from Thato’s sincere gaze, not
allowing him to present an argument that could weaken her resolve. The crafty poet has also been abandoned by words. Thato can’t conjure up a rebuttal. He watches her stretch the distance between them. She can sense his eyes staring at her. She is feeling a little guilty about snipping the ribbon of romance he is trying to wrap around her.]

  Fade out

  Fade in

  EXT./ INT. – MOFOKENG RESIDENCE – EVENING

  [Thato wipes his feet on the front porch mat, taking a couple of deep breaths. He remembers a song about the good girls being taken every time. The young man lets himself in without knocking. He is heartbroken. He can hear Bass and Solly talking in the living room.]

  Thato (faking a smile): Evening, Uncle Solly.

  Bass: Mshana, back so soon? How did the gathering go this evening?

  Solly: It went well. Good food. Versatile performers. Great crowd. It was like nothing …

  [A sudden knock at the door interrupts him. It sounds more like an impatient bang. One that the likes of Bass haven’t heard since the days of apartheid when the police were raiding houses.]

  Bass: Hey! Who the hell do you think you are banging on my door like that!

  The person at the door (O.S.): Why don’t you come and find out! [Bass marches to the door angrily.]

  Solly: Papa, wait!

  Bass (moves past Solly to turn the key in the lock): You know, when I lay my hands on this low life—(the door swings open, Bass is shocked to see who is standing there) Son of …

  [There stands a big-bellied man, fuming, eyes burning with a look that resembles hell’s rage. Bass recognises him. He’s seen his most recent picture in a newspaper article. It is Molemo Phiri. Thato’s father.]

  Molemo: Pokola!

  Bass (clearing his throat): Eh, Molemo. How did—

  Molemo: Where’s my son!

  Thato (emerging from behind Bass’ shoulder): Dad? But how did—

  Molemo: Come here, boy!

  Bass: Calm down, my brother. Come inside.

  [Not even interested in a single syllable, Molemo grabs Bass by his shirt and pulls him out of his own home. The older man stumbles out to the front porch. The second his foot lands outside, his temple immediately meets a wedding ringed-knuckle. Their kids intervene. Each to hold back or pick up their father. There is a lot of shouting. Occasional cussing. As the altercation gets louder, the relentless barking of the neighbour’s dog can be heard over the audible mumbling of passers-by who now stop to watch.]

  Thato: Father, please. I am begging you. Don’t do this. It’s not their fault. I asked them if I could visit.

  Molemo (to Bass): So, you have turned my son against me now!

  Bass: Your son wasn’t forced to do anything. He came here of his own accord. I couldn’t refuse or turn him away. He’s family.

  Molemo: You know nothing about family. You tried to destroy mine!

  Bass: But that was years ago. I have changed.

  Molemo: You’re nothing but a wolf in a sheep’s skin.

  Bass (remorsefully): I am fully aware of my mistakes. But please, just give me a chance to right my wrongs.

  Solly: What are you talking about, Papa?

  [The commotion calls the neighbours out of their houses. The more cowardly ones are peering through their windows.]

  Molemo: Go on. Tell our kids how this rivalry came to be. Tell them the truth.

  Bass: I never meant to …

  Molemo (breaking Thato’s hold): Tell them! They have been waiting to hear this for a long time.

  [A long beat. Bass seems to briefly lapse into some type of introspective state. Then after some time, he releases a remorseful sigh.]

  Bass: You are right. It’s no use keeping it a secret any longer. I am responsible for this entire mess. It shames and pains me to talk about it, but it’s all my fault. I was young. Arrogant. Greedy. I wanted things to go my way. I tried to make my sister marry the prince of our home village back in Lesotho. The king promised me riches and a seat for the Bafokeng clan in the royal council if I convinced my sister to accept his son’s marriage proposal. But she still refused even after the family threatened to disown her. Her love for Molemo was just too strong. I also discovered that she was pregnant with his child. That’s when the evil set in. One night, I called some of my close friends to help me abduct and murder Thato’s father. We ambushed him. Beat him up. But he ended up escaping us somehow. We ran after him but couldn’t catch up. He got away. We still went after him. Looked everywhere and searched every house that might offer him refuge. But he was clever enough to go to the last place we’d consider … my house. (To Thato) Your father went to my place and told your mother everything we had done. He convinced her to leave with him. She agreed. And I never saw her again. I am sorry, mshana. I’m very sorry bra Molemo. What I did to you and our families was terrible. Now I am asking for an opportunity to make things better. I beg of you. Please.

  Molemo: No, Bass. Never. You caused my wife and I to suffer when our only crime in the world was loving each other. The stress of never going home again got to your sister. As for me, that moment in time made me stronger. It motivated me to work even harder. So, I don’t know whether to thank you, or break you. But I am certain about one thing: I want you to stay away from my family. I skipped a border to keep my kids safe. Now don’t make me leap a couple of centimetres to protect them. (To Thato) And you! Never come here again. I forbid you. Are we clear?

  [Thato nods slowly. Looking regretful.]

  Molemo: Now then … take your things quickly. Let’s go home. [Thato’s face sags. It feels like a dagger went through his heart. Solly looks at him walking back into the house and sympathises with him.]

  Fade to black

  Fade in

  INT. – SCHOOL HALL – DAY

  [With only two days to go until the gospel explosion competition, the choir is making last minute rearrangements to their new song. Most of the members are not happy with this. Solly starts to explain.]

  Solly: … Look, I know we all prefer the song as it is, but I’m afraid we just have to make some changes. Come on guys, we have done this before.

  Tshepo: No, Solly. I don’t think we should do that.

  [Most of the choir concurs with a unanimous “Yeah!”]

  Solly: I know how you feel and believe me, I am not comfortable with this either.

  Mantwa: Then don’t do it.

  Solly: But we must. No one can handle the poetry part better than the guy who wrote it.

  Refilwe: So, where is Thato then?

  Solly: I already told you, there’s been a family emergency and Thato had to leave.

  David: If it’s a family thing, why aren’t you with him?

  Solly: Guys, please. We need to—

  Xolani: Is there something wrong with his father?

  Buhle: I heard there was like a major fight at your house last night.

  Yolanda: Where is bra Bass?

  Solly (irritated): Oh, would you just shut up! All of you. This is not a press conference, it’s our last rehearsal before the competition and we are wasting time. I told what you need to know. I don’t have all the answers. But what I know for sure is that we have two hours to rearrange the song and we haven’t made much progress. So, I need you to focus on the music and worry less about matters that don’t concern you. Okay …Alright. Let’s take it from the top. One, two …

  Fade out

  Twenty-Four

  Another Ending

  THE IMAGE ON the CD cover – a huge golden cross atop a misty mountain – filled Bandile with nostalgia. It was by Thuto-Thabeng, one of Bandile’s favourite clap-and-tap choirs of all time. His father introduced him to clap-and-tap, and Thuto-Thabeng. The old man would sit his son on his lap next to an old, grey cassette player – and encourage the young boy to sing along. The experience made him a star pupil at Sunday school.

  Bandile selected the twelfth and final track on the album, a song about Psalm 23. The main vocalist led with emotional intensity and vocal
rawness that guided the song around and over its peaks and valleys. The rest of the choir backed her with a harmonious following.

  He felt moved to write. He sat at his desk, hand moving from left to right. It was not as easy as when he was on Speedom. But that wonder drug was no longer an option. The Linden Institute had used its ties to government to lobby the police to raid all the black market producers. The sting had the inadvertent effect of bringing down some of the country’s most respected business people, who it turned out owned some of the black market producers.

  Without the drug to call on, Bandile was attempting to channel inspiration from the music genre that was the beat of his story. He tried to write quickly, but the song came to its natural end after eight minutes. Silence returned, strumming the guitar chords of sadness. Melancholy accompanied it with a violin as the walls sang, “It’s too late, too late, for you it is over.”

  Bandile tried to resist calling it quits on the project that was to burnish his tarnished star. He’d come so far. He tried again to find the words within himself but found nothing but a vast, endless emptiness. He wondered if the artist was the master or the slave; the driver or the vehicle.

  He remembered the bee, bumping over and over into a glass window.

  If only someone, or something, bigger and more powerful than he would take pity on him like he had on the bee – and open the window for him, then he’d be free.

  Speedom withdrawal, the writer was learning the hard way, is a doozy. It was the debt collector who took back not only what he lent when you fell behind, but any and all profits connected to the loan. Not only was Bandile doubting he’d finish the project without Speedom, he thought the project in its entirety was rubbish. The paragraphs were below par. He had sentenced the wrong subjects and predicates together in a jail of gibberish.

  Amid the cracking and crumbling foundations of his mind, a landslide of questions he’d left unanswered came crashing down. Where did Molly come from? What was she, exactly? Was she even real? Did a dark spirit really lure him to the Cariba Inn? Was he Molly?