The last question cracked him up. He laughed until his sides ached and tears were flowing from his eyes. When, finally, he stopped laughing, the tears continued coming and did not stop. He began to wail, openly, like a mother grieving a dead child, insisting that she be buried with them. He, too, wanted to throw himself into the grave where his script now lay, mourned by no one but himself.
Still wailing, he opened his wall safe and pulled out the revolver inside. This was it. The end. The black barrel felt cold against his temple. Before he could give it a second thought, he pulled the trigger. Blood and brains splattered the walls as Bandile collapsed into a heap.
The family elders set aside the following Saturday to lay their son at his final resting place. The weather joined in the mourning. Droplets trickled down from the sky like the tears of friends and members of the Ndala family. The crowd was enormous; family, friends and fans alike – hearts were sore and broken. One aunt howled that he should have called on them for help.
“We failed our child,” she cried out, as she fell dramatically into the arms of a tall man behind her.
Four men with shovels returned the dirt they had dug up into the grave as the casket was lowered into the stillness, six feet beneath the top soil. It covered every inch of the box, including the brass nameplate with the fallen writer’s full name on it: Bandile K. Ndala.
Zoleka Ndala needed help to walk, her feet crumbling under her. She was overwhelmed by feelings she thought she’d left behind in that house. For eight years, Zoleka had been a good wife. A reliable co-pilot and true ride-or-die partner. She put up with Bandile’s unfaithfulness, disrespect and emotional abuse as the years went on. Then came the deepening of the mental illness and the physical violence. Zoleka had tried everything to keep the family together. She completely immersed herself in the role of mother and wife, even giving up her last job so she could be more involved in the kids’ lives. Slowly, and over several years, the space between the couple became a distance so vast and wide that their love got lost in it.
She’d lost Bandile long before she left him – lost him to the fame-chasing hangers-on who praised him to his face and mocked him behind his back. They egged on his reckless behaviour and he disregarded the most important of Zoleka’s simple demands: Put family first.
Zoleka walked away from the grave, supported by her mother. Her father followed close behind with the children, as they all made their way to the vehicles that would take them back to the Ndala residence.
One man remained behind. Kulani Moyaba. He paused for a moment to look up at the sky before he glanced down at the headstone once more. He nodded reverently and then said his last words.
“So, is this your answer, Bandile? Your solution to problems. Well, I’m disappointed. What about our dreams? We always dreamt of using our work to empower others. Invest in young talent. You went astray. Lost everything. Wanted a quick solution to get it all back. But things don’t work that way. You can’t cut corners. Destruction is swifter than construction. It takes time. Life keeps on testing us, and you have failed. You had kids that looked up to you. What kind of example are you setting here? Give up when you’ve had enough? Run away and roll over? I never thought you were so shallow. You have undermined the value of life and underestimated the power of positive perception. Like a coward, you ran away, leaving your family behind. I don’t know what to tell your children … But out of respect for all the good you have put into the world, I will remind them of a man who touched people’s lives with his work. A revolutionary that has helped to positively shape the minds of generations. A leader that has influenced popular culture using well-crafted art. You need not worry about their needs. I will look after them. Love them as my own. Goodbye, my friend. May your soul forever rest in peace.”
Indeed, it was time for Bandile’s spirit to find peace. The fallen writer rose as an entity unseen by the naked eye, floating above the grave, unrestricted by gravity. That’s when all else started to fade away. But not before his spirit caught a glimpse of something in its peripheral vision. It turned in time catch a glimpse of a long, dark braid shimmering into nothingness.
Darkness descended, then a blinding light washed over everything, ending the writer’s nightmare.
Twenty-Five
The First Words
“BANDILE!”
The voice became more agitated.
“Bandile!”
The writer lolled in bed, too parched to answer. All he managed to whisper was, “God, is that you?”
The words summoned a big, billowing laugh from the voice. Even in his sorry state Bandile could recognise that laugh. Kulani.
The agent helped the writer sit up and gave him a sip of water. “I’ve been banging on your door for the past hour,” he said. “I had to kick it open. Thought I’d find you dead or something.”
Bandile was still too confused to listen. Why wasn’t he dead? He’d had lucid dreams before, but the experience he’d apparently awoken from seemed too real. He’d blown his own brains out. He was sure of it.
“You know,” Kulani said, “there are easier ways to tell me to get lost. Only you would write an entire script to say it.”
Slowly regaining his senses, Bandile said, “Huh?”
“Clap and Tap,” Kulani said. “It’s brilliant. Cheese boy goes to kasi to find his roots? It’s exactly the opposite of what I asked you for. I asked you for authentic kasi experiences.”
“It’s done?”
“What’s done?”
“Clap and Tap,” Bandile said.
A worried look fell upon Kulani’s face.
“You sent it to me two nights ago,” he said. “I read it in one sitting. Don’t worry. I caught the subtext. Black people are treated as creatures to be studied and documented by people who tell their stories, even other black people.”
The businessman laughed as Bandile tried to find his way back to reality through the thickets of his mind. He remembered neither finishing the script nor sending it to Kulani. The last thing he remembered was the cold steel of the revolver.
“People like me are part of the problem. I get it,” Kulani said. “That’s why we need you to write subversive stories like this. The TV Networx execs want it. Seven figures and a share of royalties.”
“I must be dreaming,” Bandile said.
“That’s right, my brother. Your wildest dream yet.”
Bandile didn’t find the remark as funny as Kulani did. Because he wasn’t sure anymore, again, what was real and what was not. He searched his mind to find a real memory to cling to, a lifeboat to carry him across the sea of confusion. Instead he found questions that only plunged him deeper into it.
What was reality anyway? Is it objective truth and what makes dreams any less real than our waking experiences? Does reality only exists within the boundaries of the five senses. But, what about the realness exclusive to the higher mind? The truth said to be revealed only in death or in a deep, transitive meditative state? The truth about time as an illusion? The afterlife or seeing the face of God? Do such discoveries and realisations not count as real because they are not constructs of the physical universe or conscious mind? Are we trapped in an elaborately vivid dream? Kept from beholding what is really real by our attachment to a three-dimensional world?
Bandile grabbed at the sides of his bed.
“Babalas?” Kulani said. “That fire water you drink is going to be the death of you.”
He handed him the glass of water along with two pain tablets. They were red and green capsules.
Bandile hesitated for a moment before picking up the pills from Kulani’s hand. He held them in his own hand, wondering about the powdery substance inside each. He swallowed them in one go and chased them with a glass of water.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you,” Kulani said, “but you better not be losing it on the eve of our comeback.”
“Don’t worry,” Bandile finally said. “I’m fine.”
“Good. Ther
e’s still work to do. The concept is great, but the script is still rough in parts. I need you in shape to revise and refine it,” Kulani said. “We meet again next Tuesday with the TV Networx execs and I want a final script to present.”
Bandile nodded. “You’ll have it.”
“With a catchier kasi-inspired name,” Kulani shouted, as he left the room. “Next Tuesday. TV Networx offices at 10am. Be sober please.”
“I will,” he shouted back.
The sun was setting by the time Bandile stepped outside for the first time that day. He was on his large, west-facing balcony, where he’d hosted many Sunday sessions of soothing, soulful sounds of the ’70s. This time he was toasting the sunset with a bottle of water in hand.
He watched the tapestry of yellows, oranges, peaches and reds play against a cloudless blue sky.
“Have you ever noticed that the sun always sets faster when watched?” he said.
No answer came.
“I know you’re there. I saw you,” he added. “When I died in that awful dream, I saw you.”
“You’ve been dead in spirit ever since we officially met back at the Cariba Inn,” Molly said. “Lifeless without the pulse of new artwork.”
Bandile turned and there she was, hands on hips, head cocked to the side. For the first time ever the sight of her did not scare him. It did not cause the right side of his chest to ache.
She went on to explain. “But I couldn’t let you die in the flesh. I am still interested in unlocking my creativity through your body. You and I have been one entity for a long time. Fused like Goku and Vegeta. Sharing a body like Mpiyakhe Zungu and Mgijimi. I may not like you as a person, but you’re the best there is if I want to make my mark in this world. I only let you live to help me realise my dreams. Nothing more. Now earn your air and make this project another masterpiece.”
“You and I have the same goal,” he told her. “We want to have a noteworthy impact through our work. Creating art that will live for a very long time. So I think we could do it together for a little longer. What do you say?”
Molly held out a hand, which he took without hesitation. “Come,” she said. “We have a lot of work to finish.”
“I know,” Bandile said.
Moments later, sitting in the glow of his computer, sober and without Speedom in his system for the first time in months, Bandile exhaled. He looked at his hands as they hovered over the keyboard. Another pair of ghostly hands also hovered momentarily above his and then the two became one. Then the writer’s fingers began to strike one key after the next in a smooth, flowing, unhalting motion.
The Last Sentence Page 16
