Ma.’
‘He is worrying me.’
‘Don’t worry. He probably lost track of days – the wunga he smokes does that. Are you not going to church today?’
‘No, we will visit the sickly instead.’
‘I heard he was seen at the wunga merchant in the shacks on Friday. I’ll look for him later.’
‘You could have done that yesterday. What’s wrong with you?’ Ma asked.
‘It was late when I heard the news. I could not risk going there at night with the muggings in the neighbourhood.’
‘What’s holding you back from going there now? Alcohol steams off you with every answer. That child is watching you, that’s why he is this loose!’
‘I don’t smoke wunga and Simphiwe doesn’t drink,’ I retorted.
‘That’s all you know? To answer me back?’ She was mad.
‘What did I do, Ma? Every time Simphiwe does wrong, you blame me.’
A taxi stopped at the gate.
‘We’ll continue this when I come back,’ she snapped, closing the front door.
Through the lounge window I watched Ma get into the taxi. For the first time that weekend she smiled as she greeted her friends from church. Then she settled in her seat and just as quickly was again casting a sullen gaze out the window as the taxi drove off.
With Ma attending to her church stuff, and Simphiwe out there chasing, Sunday mornings were perfect for studying. Ordinarily I was efficient in the silence. I’d planned to study for the last tests of the semester coming up in the week, but on that Sunday thoughts of Simphiwe crammed every cube of the empty space.
My books were open on my lap, but I stared out of the window, looking at nothing. When I looked back into the room it was to our wall unit with Simphiwe’s trophies for running and karate. His school picture showed him beaming – a smile I had not seen in months. I tried to study, but thoughts of Simphiwe darted through my mind.
I tried to nap, but couldn’t take my eyes off his drawing on the wall of our bedroom. On a sheet of white A4 paper Simphiwe had sketched a lake, using two shades of pencils. I was so deep in the drawing that the lake seemed to ripple and shimmer.
When I came back to reality, I walked to the kitchen, opened the door and went out looking for my brother.
I had not been to the shacks in two years and was surprised by how much the community had grown in such a short time. Boy Boy’s directions were spot on: I saw it from the top of the hill, the neat shack at the bottom of a long, winding road.
Sunday morning unravelled as I made my way down. A young mother hung the last of her infant’s clothes up on a line. An old woman tossed water from a bucket onto the pathway just after I passed her shack. I walked faster to avoid the stream of soapy water. I recognised a few faces from high school.
Unlike most other shacks made of timber and metal roof sheets, Bheka’s was built properly with concrete blocks and roof tiles. Straws with the poison – wunga – were in his overall pockets. I watched as he made a sale to two boys about my brother’s age. Young slaves to the first high, they were their families’ Simphiwe.
‘Your brother exchanged his cellphone for a lot of wunga. He took his SIM card with him,’ the wunga merchant said when I asked about Simphiwe. ‘I don’t know where he went because it gets busy here on weekends, but he was here. He started a fight. It wasn’t in my yard; it was down there at the cul-de-sac. Tell the boy to cool it. He’s still young and the things that come out of his mouth are too old for him.’
I sat on the steps and smoked a cigarette, my mind processing the information about my brother. A wunga boy stopped and shook my hand like he knew me. It took me a while to recognise him. As he let go of my hand, I realised it was a friend’s brother. He had grown unhealthily thin. After greeting, I asked if he had seen Simphiwe.
‘He was here on Friday with Dumisani. There was a fight. Dumisani started the whole thing. Simphiwe was fighting for him. Wunga hits us in different ways. For most of us it zaps energy, but Simphiwe gains energy. He is everywhere: dice game, cards … Your brother doesn’t know when to stop. And he never backs down. We broke up the fight but Simphiwe just kept pushing it. It’s his karate that makes him think he is invincible. It’s worse since he became friends with Dumisani. Your brother uses Dumisani’s reputation as a shield, but the boy whose nose he broke is just as bad, if not worse.’
‘Dumisani who?’
‘You know him, he lives near the butchery. You went to school with his brother, Sango.’
‘You mean that fat boy?’
‘He is thin now, after what happened last year and his time away. You know what happened, right?’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Anyway, they left here in a friend’s car. I don’t know who. Sorry, I’m in a hurry. Good to see you. You have R5 for me? I need to get my day going.’
I don’t remember if I gave him the money or not. Not much registered besides the bolt of shock going through my body as I connected the name to a face. Dumisani was Sango’s younger brother: the killer kid.
I wanted to buy thin-cut T-bone from the butchery – a little contribution to the household from tips I made during the week. The only butchery with decent meat was near Sango’s house anyway. I’d pass by and ask about Dumisani’s whereabouts.
I buzzed at the gate and waited, until the neighbour opposite, an old lady, called out from her veranda: ‘There’s nobody there. They are away at a church conference. Try them tomorrow.’
‘What about Sango? Is he around?’
‘Sango works in Richard’s Bay now, since the beginning of the year.’
‘And his younger brother, Dumisani?’
‘Who am I answering to? My boy, who are you?’
‘Apologies for not introducing myself. I went to school with Sango and my name is Khulekani.’
‘I see. I haven’t seen Dumisani since Friday morning when he left the house keys with me.’
‘Do you have his phone number?’
‘He doesn’t have a phone. He is a wunga addict. His parents got fed up because every time they buy him a new phone, he sells it to smoke that poison.’
I thanked her, smiled politely, and said goodbye when she started down the road to chatty. I dialled Simphiwe’s number three times on the way home, wishing that, by some miracle, he’d paid the wunga merchant and got his phone back while I was out looking for him. All I got was his voicemail.
Ma had just finished cooking Sunday supper when I got home. I told her the story but thought it best to leave out all the added madness that had come into Simphiwe’s life. The fact that she knew he’d become a wunga addict was bad enough, without me turning the screws. She did not need to hear about his fights and camaraderie with killer kids.
