Authors: Wole Soyinka
‘Ebamba!’
Ebamba looks up.
The waitress has come back with a tray carrying the bottles and the glasses. She sets them on the table. The drinks are ice cold.
‘Thanks.’
The waitress simply nods and walks away again.
Tshiamwa picks up the bottle of beer and fills his glass. They drink a toast to friendship. Ebamba sets down his glass, licks his lips and takes a deep breath. Tshiamwa drains half of his glass, refills it and drinks again until he has quenched his thirst.
‘You remember the daughter of my landlady,
Maman
Mongala?’
‘Oh, I remember her! Maguy?’
‘That’s right. Well, this is about her.’
‘What did she do? Is she the problem?’
‘She is indeed, my friend, this girl and her mother have trapped me and I can see no way out.’
Tshiamwa finds himself confused by his friend’s sudden assertion and asks him to hold up a moment.
‘So what is this problem? What is this trap the girl and her mother set for you?’
Ebamba looks at Tshiamwa for a moment then says, ‘Maguy is pregnant, Tshims!’
‘So . . . ?’
‘So, apparently I’m the father.’
‘What? How did that happen! Don’t say such things, my friend.’ Tshiamwa is shocked. He cannot believe his ears. ‘How on earth did it come to this?’
‘This is why I asked you here today, my friend, so you can give me some advice.’
‘But how on earth did it happen? How could you have got her pregnant? What about Eyenga? Have you forgotten your fiancée? You can hardly tell me Maguy raped you?’
‘No, my friend, of course not. Though thinking about it, about the way it started out, you could say that she forced me.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
Tshiamwa makes it clear that he does not believe what his friend is trying to make him believe. He gives Ebamba a scornful sneer and says:
‘Tell me the truth. What possessed you to do such a thing?’
‘You remember the night of the Matuka’s party in Muguyla-guyla?’
‘His birthday you mean? Of course I remember. You went home drunk. ’
‘Exactly, that was the night I went home in a state of inebriation . . .’
Ebamba tells Tshiamwa the whole story down to the smallest detail. Tshiamwa listens to the tale attentively, though there are moments when he cannot help but make his astonishment obvious.
‘And now, how far along is she?’
‘Only a month.’
Tshims shakes his head again, scratches his chin, strokes his beard. He cannot believe what he is hearing
‘So what are you going to do now? Tell her to get an abortion?’
‘
Niet!
What kind of advice is that, huh? I could never tell a girl to have an abortion.’
‘But let’s be realistic, my friend, what else can you do now? In case you’ve forgotten, let me remind you that you have a fiancée and you’re supposed to marry her very soon!’
‘That’s the problem, and may I remind you that this is why I asked you to meet me so that we could talk it over. But there will be no more talk of abortion. I refuse to consider it.’
Tshiamwa drains another glass. He exhales nosily and slams his glass down on the table. Picking up the bottle of Primus, he studies the contents and pours the remaining beer into his glass, holding it at an angle as foam spills over the sides and puddles on the table again. Then he picks up the glass, stares at it fervently, nodding as if to say ‘What a life!’, and drains it before slamming the glass down on the table. Boom.
‘What now?’ Ebamba asks sarcastically. ‘Don’t tell me you’re drunk on a few glasses of beer!’
Tshiamwa snorts. He rubs his face with his hands as though to wake himself or to lower the level of alcohol in his bloodstream. He sighs again, biting his lower lip. He rolls up his shirtsleeve and glances at his wristwatch.
Tshiamwa looks into Ebamba’s eyes.
‘You know how much I love and value you as a friend, not only because I personally followed your brilliant career from primary school to university. You are intelligent guy and I always told myself that one day you would be an important figure in this country.’
‘
Nanu tokufi te!
’ Ebamba interrupts. ‘We’re not dead yet . . .’
‘Oh, yes,’ says Tshims. ‘As you say, where there’s life, we’re still allowed to hope.’
‘Amen!’ says Ebamba with a little laugh.
‘So, as I was saying,’ Tshims continues, ‘it’s because I admire you so much that what’s happened upsets me – I can’t help but wonder how you’re going to cope. You have no father and no mother. And you have no job! What does Maguy’s mother have to say? Does she know about the situation?’
‘No, we haven’t told her about it yet. Though I don’t know, it’s possible that her daughter has talked to her and the two of them have decided to keep me in the dark.’
‘Do you love this Maguy girl or what?’
‘Oh, my friend, Maguy is not so bad. She is not vulgar; it’s just that I have made my choice: it’s Eyenga I plan to marry. With my uncle’s help, the preparations for our wedding are already well advanced.’
‘How many times were you together, apart from the famous night of Matuka’s birthday party?’
‘More than a dozen times! You said yourself the girl is a real Bangala bomb!’
Tshims smiles. Looking at Ebamba, he scratches his head and nods, then says: ‘But what about you, my friend, what about the little deal I told you about? You’ve done nothing, have you?’
‘I’ve already talked to you about that little deal . . .’
‘Yes, but you still refuse to do anything about it, am I right?’
‘I’ve already told you, Tshims, I will never – and I mean never – agree to such a deal. I would rather die. Men with men? Not with me, is that clear?’
Ebamba has raised his voice. Every time his friend mentions this ‘deal’, he finds himself seething with rage.
Tshims tries to calm him and tells him to lower his voice because the bar by now is starting to fill up.
‘Why are you shouting? Honestly, I’ve never understood why you stubbornly refuse even to consider it! You’re missing out on a great opportunity. You’re a charming, intelligent man so it’s only normal that other guys would be interested in you, like I’ve been attracted to you for ages . . .’
‘What are you talking about, man?’ Ebamba looks as though he has just woken from a nightmare, his eyes grow wide, his mouth falls open. He scowls and leans so that he can hear what Tshims is saying.
‘Are you listening to me, my friend?’
‘I’m listening . . .’
‘I’ve wanted to talk to you about this for a long time but I was afraid of how you would react. I just want you to know that there’s nothing wrong with homosexuality! It’s exactly like doing it with a woman. And it’s got nothing to do with witchcraft or magic like people say, because I’m sitting here with you and I’m no sorcerer, no magician.’
Ebamba’s bulging eyes grow wider still. ‘Shut up!’ he growls. He cannot bear to listen to what his friend is saying. The other customers turn to stare. Ebamba notices and tries to pull himself together. Tshims says nothing. The few seconds of silence feel like an eternity. Eventually, the other customers go back to their own conversations.
Translated by Frank Wynne
from the forthcoming novel
Durban December
Sifiso Mzobe
By the Tracks
The downpour is over in ten minutes, just the heat remains. A single agitated crease on Jabu’s sweaty forehead deepens as he brutally changes down and kills the diesel engine at the pedestrian gate of D 11773.
Because this part of D section has been affluent since the inception of Umlazi Township in 1965, D 11773 is a double-storey delight of dark, chocolate-brown brick only slightly bleached by time. A mansion among mansions – tended gardens and manicured lawns. This part of the township has been loved by the well-to-do – graduates and business people – since way back.
Climbing out of the car, Jabu adjusts his T-shirt to cover the state-issue Z88 pistol that sits heavy and snug on the hip of his cargo pants. He is still in flip flops – the urgency in Commander Sithole’s instructions, the muggy heat of the night and the hangover colluded to make him dismiss changing into sneakers. Torch in hand, he slips a slim camera into his pocket and grabs a pair of the latex gloves that Zinhle nicked from the clinic.
The pedestrian gate is unlocked. A group is congregated in the brightly lit front yard of the house.
These originals, the first ones to live in Umlazi, are grandparents in their seventies and eighties now. All of them are in pyjamas, robes and slippers. The fabric of nightwear is cotton of the finest ilk, silk is true silk. Age has blurred sight, so most wear spectacles. Before they hush down as Jabu nears, he hears the last of their final whispers: ‘An hour after we called, they arrive? This is not professional!’
Jabu gets on with the business at hand. ‘Can I talk to the owner of the house?’
The lights of D 11773 reflect on their glasses as he searches their faces for a response. They don’t reply. Instead, they usher him into the centre of the circle where a scruffy man is sitting on the lawn. As Jabu gets closer he wonders how these people stood the stink for an hour.
The ratty man reeks of a blocked toilet; his hair turned into dreadlocks by an aversion to taking baths. His eyes are shackled by shock. Tears pour out and roll down, cascading over older salted tracks. His trembling, filthy hand points Jabu to the general direction of what has him shook.
‘It smells of death. I am sure it is death. I’ve never smelled it so bad. He is dead! He is dead!’ he mumbles through a clenched jaw.
‘What are you talking about?’ Jabu enquires.
The dirty man loses it. He falls on his side, tumbles and breaks the circle of elders around him by rolling like a log on the lawn.
‘How long has he been like this?’ Jabu asks the septuagenarian next to him.
‘Close to an hour. He was rambling, so we decided to call you. But this, the rolling, he started now . . .’ says the bespectacled, straight-shooting grandfather, tucking his hands into the silky robe that is tied too tight over his ample midriff.
‘Has anyone seen what he is talking about?’
‘It is dark – no one can see. But we had to call you because he keeps saying the same thing, pointing to the tracks.’
‘Does anyone know where he lives? Have you seen him around here before?’
‘He lives by the stream. He’s a hermit. Something is really wrong with him. Maybe he is confessing to a crime – human blood weighs heavy on the soul, you know. It talks, detective.’
The homeless man is clearly terrified by what he has seen. Jabu has caught many criminals and he knows that murderers don’t just appear in front of you on a silver platter. They don’t stick around and alert the world to their crimes. Something is amiss.
In a momentary pause that lasts just seconds, the homeless man stops rolling. Jabu searches for the hobo’s eyes but their pupils don’t lock. The vagabond gawks beyond him, too far into the humid night sky. The look is blank and his body shivers in the Umlazi night. Soon he is in the foetal position, his numbed stare cast into the grass.
‘So, what are you going to do?’ asks the elder.
‘I’ll check what is out there. Probably nothing, but to ease your concerns I’ll have a look.’
‘Umlazi was once a wonderful place to raise children. This area, especially, was once peaceful. Now we have break-ins and muggings. Last year we asked for vans to patrol our streets, now that would be a solution to nip these problems in the bud, but your boss is a hard man to work with. Sithole is big on promises but doesn’t do much. I have been in touch with Provincial SAPS. Their communications officer is a former student of mine. Now there is a brilliant mind. Excellent ambidextrous brain. She could have just as easily excelled in academia, to tell you the truth. She told me they will address my concerns. You see, my son, institutions must function for us, the people. But . . .’
‘Let me get on with what I’m here to do,’ Jabu says, cutting short the developing monologue. ‘Nobody leave the yard. I still have to talk to all of you for my report,’ he adds, heading to the back yard.
The Umlazi originals leave the vagabond shaking on the lawn and follow Jabu to the edge of the tracks.
You’d think it would have cooled down after the storm, but it is the sweltering opposite. The humidity in the air, the fragrance of a fruiting mango tree, and the smell of freshly cut grass mingle with the stale taste of the whisky from a few hours ago. Jabu wipes sweat from his brow as he steps on to the track ballast, crushed stone crunches as he climbs up to the track.
There is an eerie hush, a near absolute silence in which Jabu hears the quieting cries of the vagabond.
Jabu torches his way forward, instantly making out a shape in the darkness, a shadow on the friction-polished tracks. It is right at the curve where the tracks go under a bridge. The back yard lights of the mansions don’t reach this far but the lump is darker than the night. He treads on, away from the group of elders until he hears only his steps and sometimes the crunch of crushed stones when he misses a concrete sleeper.