* *
The next day, in the early evening, they all come to see me: Mpumelelo, Nhlakanipho, Tongai and Nhlakanipho’s girlfriend, Lesego. It is my first time meeting Lesego. She looks dry, with thin hair. Mpumelelo appears yellowy in his grey coat. I smell brew on Mpumelelo’s breath. I look him in the eyes, shake his hand; he nods, with fear all around him. I sense Nhlakanipho’s heavy eyes from the side. As I approach Lesego I become aware of my baggy shorts and skater tackies. She puts out a feeble hand and nods nervously.
I offer them something to drink. Mpumelelo jumps up first. “I want some,” he says with his right hand on his chest. I pour each a glass of Tropika. The gathering is awkward. No one mentions my breakdown. Nhlakanipho drove to my place. He has hired a car for the weekend. Moments later, he gets up. His belly protrudes through his golf shirt. He is wearing black sandals.
“I have to take Lesego home,” he says.
I see them out of the flat. Mpumelelo stops, looking like he has forgotten something; he goes to my room and bids my mother goodbye.
* * *
Tongai says that I was extremely strong on the night of my breakdown. My remembrance of the events surprises him.
“That’s the part I find very strange,” he says.
I confide to Tongai that I thought judgement was nigh, that I feared Armageddon would take place at seven, as people wanted to meet me at that specific hour.
“I understand why Kafka wanted to have all his writing destroyed after his death,” I say to Tongai.
“It was a matter of the heart. Only he knew where his heart was at the time he wrote those books. Leaving lasting works when you know your heart was not in the right place would be hell. Those who went ahead and published his writing were wrong.”
“Hayi, the dead have no rights!” Tongai bursts out. Then he puts his hands together and looks contrite. I read his regret at his brash utterance. Tongai often makes remarks and then says he’s sorry. Apologies are a part of his nature.
* * *
Tongai dashes out to work in the morning. He is an intern at an advertising company in town, and works until noon on some Saturdays. A while back, he had to package CDs that were to be distributed to taverns promoting Three Ships whisky. I assisted him that day, and it was tedious.
A faint sunlight smiles through the window in my room. I vibe to Gil Scott-Heron, peaceful melodies transporting me to a land of spirits. Since the beginning of this year, I have acquired the habit of recording life in a journal. I have to write about the madness of the past few days, but my journal is not on my desk. I ransack my room looking for it.
“Have you seen a black notebook?” I ask my mother.
“No, I haven’t.”
“This is very strange, I usually keep it on my desk.”
I call Tongai at his work. “Do you know where my diary is?”
He takes a few breaths before answering. “It’s at my mom’s house. Me and Nhlakanipho, we were looking for clues as to what caused your breakdown,” he explains.
“No, I don’t like what you did. So you read my diary?”
“No, we didn’t, serious . . . we didn’t.”
“I don’t like what you did.”
“The diary is in my bag in the lounge,” Tongai finally says.
I find the notebook in the bag. I no longer have the urgency to write. I wonder what they saw in my diary. I’m even afraid of looking at what I have written.
My mother placates me by saying that when someone has gone through an experience such as mine it is only natural for people to look for clues. She calls Tongai to apologise on my behalf. Tongai tells her to tell me that he’ll be watching rugby later in the afternoon. At about three I join Tongai at Café Sofia in Rondebosch, upstairs from the Pick n Pay. Inside there are round brown tables. The floor has brown tiles. There is a vibrant feel to the place, with young students serving as waiters. Tongai sits with intent at the table, wearing the round glasses he recently bought. His previous pair was lost during a drunken night out. Tongai has a glass of draught beer in front of him. For this game – South Africa against Australia – he supports Australia. I find this odd. Black guys usually support New Zealand when they don’t favour the Springboks. I am not at all interested in the match. Even though I attended a boys’ school, where rugby was a religion, I have never had a liking for the sport. To Tongai’s pleasure, Australia wins the game.
Nhlakanipho and Mpumelelo had gone to Mzoli’s in Gugulethu. They join us later at Café Sofia. Mpumelelo orders a beer. Nhlakanipho is still trying to stop drinking. He has orange juice.
“You know what I observed at Mzoli’s?” Mpumelelo ventures. “Everything depends on money. You know, the chicks look at what the guy is drinking. Everyone goes there with a car.”
Nhlakanipho shakes his head, not impressed by what his older brother is saying. He yields to his craving and calls a waitress to order a beer. I keep quiet, not paying attention to what the guys are saying. With a car for the weekend, Nhlakanipho wants to make the most of this mobility. He suggests they go somewhere else. As if he can read my mind, he offers to drop me off at home.
* * *
I lie on the couch tucked under a duvet. I have been reading Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre for a while. Now, I find I cannot absorb the book. The feelings of the meaninglessness of everything seem stale. When I told Rasun I was reading Nausea he said he didn’t like the book. He has always had more of a penchant for life.
The creak of the door wakes me. It is Nhlakanipho and Tongai. They take a seat on the other couch to my right. Nhlakanipho’s eyes are bloodshot.
“You know, what we have realised from this whole experience of yours . . . is just how sadistic we can be,” Nhlakanipho says coolly, caressing his belly.
I grunt at this statement. My reaction is almost reflexive. Nhlakanipho does not take this further. For several heartbeats we sit in silence.
“I even regret hiring this car now,” Nhlakanipho says. “There’s no way they won’t notice the scratch.”
“You have to explain it to them,” Tongai advises.
“What were you doing with this car anyway?” I ask Nhlakanipho.
He does not reply.
“I was trying to sleep, gents,” I say. Nhlakanipho mumbles goodbye to me. Tongai sees him out.
* * *
In the morning, while we pack, I make a point of taking all my diaries with me. Tongai accompanies us in the taxi. He is on his way to church, and is carrying his big brown Bible. He gets off in Claremont. Mother and I continue to the airport. The taxi driver drops us off in the loading zone. I push our luggage in a trolley into the terminal. The airport is not that busy. Our flight is scheduled for half past twelve. We check our luggage at the airline counter.
For breakfast, we go upstairs to the Wimpy. I have
