menacing, with a charred complexion, and speaks an exotic tongue. I force myself to calm down and stay in my seat. I have to wait for Paul. I need his help. But the fear climbs up the walls and pushes on my chest. I can’t stay. I get out. I start drowning in the street. The street names keep changing. I see streets named after writers like Dickens. Is this the passage of a writer? In the afterlife will I be assembled with writers?
* * *
I receive a call from my mother: “I have just spoken to Bhuti Paul. He says you keep getting lost. He can’t get a hold of you. Where are you?”
I look at the streets in my vicinity. I am at the corner of Dickens and Victoria roads. I’m scared of telling my mother this. It sounds like the corner of Devil and Victory.
“What I love about you, my child, is that you speak the truth,” my mother says. “I have just spoken to Ndlela’s father. Have you taken drugs before?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Which ones?”
“Dagga and cocaine.”
My mother sighs: “Take a cab home, my child.”
Ndlela’s father allowed me to join Ndlela at the initiation school. I was doing my first year then. When we were preparing to return home, having been made men, a relative of mine poured oil over my head in a river, anointing me. Ndlela is one of my dearest friends. Though he works in Joburg, we still keep in contact.
* * *
I read the Bible for equanimity. It isn’t consistent. The verses become different when I read over them. Evening comes. Main Road is boisterous with traffic in motion. What did I do? I regret standing up. Things were fine when I was drinking and smoking. Maybe I need to get a drink? No, I won’t.
* * *
I walk in the threatening darkness, imagining myself stranded in the night, lying in some corner. This night is going to have me all to itself. My legs continue kicking through my jeans. The insides of my thighs are numb. I am desperate for people, anyone to talk to. I call Tongai; he says he is with Caroline at Trenchtown. Caroline is a Canadian who was with us the previous Saturday at a braai in Observatory. OK, I’m coming, I say to Tongai. But Observatory, as I remember when I approach the suburb, is the place of my death. I’m not certain I’ll make it through or whether I’ll decompose there. If I meet them they’ll shake my hand like people do at the end of a race. Trenchtown is in Station Road. What will I say to Tongai and Caroline in this state? I decide not to join them.
No man knoweth the time nor the day. We do not know what will happen next. We do not even know the season we are in. Rasun, a friend of mine, had the habit of flipping a five-rand coin to decide where we should go out. He was close to the truth, for life is that precarious. I sent him an SMS on Sunday, on my way back from church with Elio, saying that God is great. Rasun responded: “Dunsky, come back to me when you’ve found the secret number.” I deleted the message immediately. All numbers say something. One represents beginnings, two stretches to infinity; the same holds with the other even numbers. The only stable number is 666. I cannot hold on to this thought.
I cross the bridge over the N2 in Mowbray, and the wind makes my eyes water. There’s an electrical substation with a grey stoep just before Forest Hill residence. Two old homeless white men used to sit on the stoep. During the day, the more vigorous one could be seen moving between the cars stopped at the traffic lights, imploring the drivers for a few cents. I stayed at Forest Hill when I was doing my postgraduate diploma in accounting. This is where I spent most of my time with Kwanele. As students we drank together and shared plenty of cigarettes. He opened me up to communism. We were bitter, looking for wrong in the world. We were insulting God with all our grief.
My head busy, I wander along the road. Around UCT the blue shuttle buses transport students to and from their residences. All I can do is walk. I’m in a dream state, eaten up with anxiety. I cannot make sense of it. I am running, rushing somewhere. The worst form of dying is to drown. You go through all the emotions, and think you are going to survive, only to die. My feet pedal above the ground. Stopping is one sure way to madness. I do not want to think about what is happening. I have to keep moving. I glide through Rondebosch, flying in the night. Soon I am in Claremont, KFC, then the taxi rank. The last thing I ate was a piece of chicken this morning. My chest is burning and my throat is as dry as the pavement. I buy a bag of apples and some juice from the ladies at the taxi rank. I eat a green apple. My chest heats up severely, and I water it down with juice. When thinking, hot coals rise to my throat and my thoughts ask each other questions, answer each other, and the answers then break into further possibilities. There is no numbness in my mind.
Carrying my Bible in my left hand, and the apples and juice in my right, I continue my journey. I am nearing home. The streetlights colour the road yellow. A homeless kid shows me his brown palms, asking for money. He stands outside the BP garage in Kenilworth. Without thinking, I give him all the coins from my pocket. “God bless,” he says. This is calming and reassuring. Where did this come from? Could he be an angel? It’s probably because of the Bible. The kid is just hustling.
A patient at the Crescent Clinic points at me. I see him in a window facing Main Road. I feel condemned. He is blaming me for something.
Seeing our block of flats makes me hopeful. I can exhale. I am going to make it through this. The front door is grey with rusty brown spots. I sit on the couch in the flat and catch my breath. The covering of the couch is torn, showing the yellow of the foam cushions. I put my Bible on the table. Tongai’s Bible is also here; his is titled Bible for Life Application. These two Bibles summarise my life, with Tongai’s being the book of life. I sure am not going to find my name here. I flip through my Bible, try reading some verses. When I reach Revelations I think I will not be able to go back. Why are there some parts highlighted in red? This could symbolise blood.
I did not think judgement would be like this. This is passive, filled with suggestions, yet with an air of finality.
* * *
I once held Mfundo’s gun. My fingerprints are still on the weapon. I could be called in for questioning should Mfundo be arrested. With my claustrophobia I do not want to go to jail. Mfundo came in while I was sleeping on a sofa in his flat. I looked up. He was pointing the gun at me. “Mfundo, don’t scare us,” I said calmly, looking at him.
“No, no, no, there are no bullets. Look,” he said, taking out the magazine. He then threw the gun at me. “Put it under the sofa,” Mfundo said.
Maybe Mfundo shot me that night. This is all a path to my place of rest. I am being shown my life and the things that happened to me. There was also the night I broke the window in my room. I felt trapped. I tried opening the door, but couldn’t. I was woken by Tongai mumbling that I would not be able to go anywhere. Next, I was pushing on the window. Tongai later told me that I suffer from night terrors. Perhaps I threw Tongai out of the window that night. And the guilt made me shut the truth away. Tongai is dead; I killed him a long time ago. Such a decent guy, who never wanted to harm anyone; I murdered him. It is this sin that is eating me up.
* * *
There are three strong knocks on the front door. I disentangle the chain.
“The people downstairs, guy . . .” Tongai says, hurrying inside with his right hand pressed against his left. He is wearing a long shirt and green cargo pants. “They say you are making a noise.”
Have I been talking to myself? That could be. I pour myself a glass of water. The flat is becoming smaller. The white burglar bars could
