go downstairs, guy,” Tongai suggests.
“The body corporate say they are going to call the police.”
From downstairs, a woman with dyed black hair brandishes a cellphone.
All this talk of going downstairs sounds like hell. Is this how life draws to an end? Your friends, those who know you, usher you to hell? Going downstairs means humbling yourself, lowering yourself to the level of the common people. That’s what these guys are trying to tell me: I haven’t been humble. I even told Nhlakanipho to keep his distance from me. I judged him. I was harsh on people.
Mpumelelo approaches me, reeking of alcohol. He is wearing that grey coat of his. “You guys have been drinking . . .” I say.
“I’ve been drinking,” Mpumelelo says, with his right hand on his chest. Nhlakanipho looks straight ahead.
“God is God. Faith is a gift. You take that first step of faith yourself,” I preach breathlessly, to a cold stare from Mpumelelo.
“The Book of Job!” I shout, turning the pages of my Bible.
“Now you are talking!” Mpumelelo shouts.
I remember a poetry reading I attended with Nhlakanipho and Mpumelelo. One woman climbed on stage and said, “The Book of Job.” The poem was about someone who hated his job. Perhaps the cause of my strife was quitting my job, and I just did not realise that it affected me.
I’m terrified looking at Mpumelelo. I’m stuck in the corridor. Satan awaits me downstairs. Hell is at the bottom. The guys want to hold my hands in this gnashing eternity. Mpumelelo walks away, down the stairs. For a while I’m on my own. I continue reading my Bible, my heart hammering in my chest and my head throbbing. Nhlakanipho comes towards me and opens his jacket. His cheeks are burning; he bites his mouth. I lean back and pray for strength as he gets closer.
“In the name of Jesus,” I shout and release my hand with my eyes closed. I hit Nhlakanipho full in the chest. I open my eyes to see him lying on the floor.
* * *
There are cold lapses in time in which I presume Tongai, Mpumelelo and Nhlakanipho gather to strategise. I stand against the cream wall in the corridor. The sharp points in the stippled wall prick my back. I see Nhlakanipho and Mpumelelo coming towards me.
“Look at yourselves. You guys are brothers. This is all because of Nthabiseng. And she was pregnant,” I pant, as the words pour from my mouth.
Mpumelelo mumbles, “We are going to beat you now.” But Nhlakanipho shakes his head, scolding his older brother. I look straight at Mpumelelo.
“We are going to call the police,” Mpumelelo warns.
Again, the lady from downstairs waves her cellphone.
“Call the cops. I do not fear man, I fear God,” I say, absolutely hopeless.
* * *
They leave me in the cold with my brain frying. One tenant tries talking to me. He is wearing pyjamas. He looks like a dead man. He wants to invite me to the land of the dead. I ignore his utterances and walk to the far end of the corridor. Nhlakanipho comes back with more resolve. He harbours an unclean spirit. I have to pray for him and rid him of the demon.
“Come here,” I beckon to Nhlakanipho. He stops. “Come here,” I say to him again. I walk towards him, but Nhlakanipho turns around and sprints down the stairs. I run after him, but I cannot catch up with him.
Time stands still. Blood rushes to my head. Kwanele said this happened to him when he was hospitalised. There’s no point in me worrying about it now.
Tongai points at Caroline. “Look, Caroline is here,” he says. She looks devilish in a scarlet skirt. I have nothing to say to her.
“When is your birthday?” I ask Tongai.
He takes a sharp breath. “On the first of October,” he says. Tongai once forgot his PIN number, which was his date of birth. He told me his biggest fear was getting Alzheimer’s. A relative of his suffered from the disease.
“Where do you go to church?” I ask him.
“At Church on Main. You can come with me whenever you want,” Tongai says, with his right hand stretched out.
“And the night terrors, how did you know about them?” I continue interrogating him.
“I told you, a lady I stayed with also suffered from them.”
Sydney, with his dark locks and penetrating eyes, walks up.
“You are my brother” is what comes from my mouth. “I love all of you guys, musicians, all of you . . . Thandeka, Kgotso.”
Sydney carries on the same struggle as Rasun; he is also mixed race. He could turn into Rasun. Perhaps he has come to deliver the secret number. I plunge towards Sydney and shove him back.
* * *
“If there’s one thing you should have realised from this whole experience, it is just how much people care for you,” Tongai says to me in the parking lot at Groote Schuur, his right arm around my shoulders. Nhlakanipho is smoking a cigarette. He passes it to Tongai when there’s only a quarter remaining. I hate this about Nhlakanipho – the way he hogs a smoke.
“You were there for me when I needed your help . . .” Tongai continues. “Remember when I was locked in Tagore’s. You came and helped me out.”
This revelation pleases me. I look at them, Tongai and Nhlakanipho. These are my brothers.
“You know, I keep telling you I want to make films,” Tongai says. “The first scene would open here,” he says, pointing at the traffic passing on Main Road below the parking lot.
* * *
We took a cab to Groote Schuur. I could not go on fighting. I had to meet with my destiny. Somewhere far off I feel a pot brewing for my demise. It is either me or someone in my family who has to die. I am holding on to life, my heart scalded from the bewildering air. As we approach the main entrance to the hospital, I make it a point to walk behind Tongai and Nhlakanipho. I shake the security guard’s hand and introduce myself. He is wearing khaki pants and a maroon jersey. “I am Selvyn Rooi,” he says. He has no front teeth. This name means “red cell”. Perhaps he is welcoming me to hell. Like a child, I follow my friends.
“Who do you think you are?” an old woman barks. She paces the floor, as wild as an animal, her hair short and grey. Is this my grandmother? Maybe it’s her. Life has devoured her into this.
A nurse pricks my finger to draw some blood. Hospital staff hover around me. This is a thorough diagnosis. All these things are done to judge me. The diabetes test is to see whether I am too sweet. Too much of anything is not good. Blood pressure measures my warmth. Was I kind-hearted enough to people? All these things are to judge me.
Thoughts flow from my head, informing me of what’s going on. The water will turn to blood. The water is in the drips. I am drying up. I ask for a glass of water. Drinking does not quench my thirst.
My friends
