got a surprise for you.”
“What are you talking about? Since when do you give me anything?”
“Just go with me, bra. I know what I’m doing.”
“Look, I’m tired. I’m not walking to town and the sun is about to go down. Just leave me alone. I’ve got enough to worry about.”
“I promise, bra. We’re not going far. Just further up the beach. Sunset Beach, that’s where we’re going. It’s not far.”
“What is this about, first? I’m not getting in trouble with cops for you.”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Then what?”
“Just come with me, bra. I’m asking you nicely.”
I get up reluctantly and follow him to Sunset Beach. He introduces me to two white kids who look older than us and have long noses. They look rich and bored with their money.
“Ja, so what do you want?” I say to the taller one.
“Aggression. Cool. I can get into that totally, man.”
“Bra, don’t speak to them like that. They’re my friends.”
“Shut up, Bafana. These are not your friends. Look at how you’re dressed and look at how they’re dressed.”
“You two are cool, man. You know what I mean? Urban culture. Like urban living. You guys are living the concrete jungle, scavenging. Fuck, you don’t need our help. Fuck, that would be an insult. You guys are like cats, urban cats. Survivors, man.”
Bafana grins and nods his head while I listen to them. I make little sense of what they’re saying.
“Yeah, so we were kind of trying to tap into your pool of experience. Like we were wondering if you guys would be interested to trip with us.”
“We’ve got good acid,” the other says, “and we’ll like feed you for the evening but it must be like a totally outdoor experience. Like we were wondering if you would take us to all of your hang-out spots at night. You know, to get the whole experience unedited.”
“What are you saying? You want me to take drugs with you?”
“I’m in,” Bafana butts in.
“Shuddup you,” I tell him.
“Okay, you guys have got this aggression thing completely going. Is that like your way, like that survival of the fittest thing? Okay, I can see that. I can tap into that if you want.”
“Look, I’m not taking drugs with you,” I tell them.
“But this is going to be a totally awesome experience. Like don’t you wanna tap into some raw energy? I mean, just think of it. Think of us making art, man. Right here right now,” the shorter one says.
“What are you talking about? I’m hungry. I don’t want to talk kak with you.”
“Bra, they said they’ll feed us,” Bafana says.
“And then what?” I ask them.
“And then we’ll have a totally awesome trip.”
I start walking towards the park. Bafana comes after me.
“Fuck off, you poes. Your naai. If you want to take drugs fuck off,” I say and curl my fist at him.
He lets me go. I hear him mumbling with the other two something about another guy Bafana knows about. They walk towards the Seven Eleven where the lights are always on.
I walk towards the Broken Bath, my strops making flapping sounds that irritate me. I take them off and put them in my jacket pocket. I walk on the beach and feel broken shells under my feet. They make a crackling sound which makes me sad. I hate sadness because it means tears are not far off. And I can’t have that. Men don’t cry. When have I ever seen Allen cry? Never. Or Gerald? Never. Or Sealy? And since I’m nearly thirteen I mustn’t cry. I must be strong. I must be a man. That is what men do. They don’t cry because tears are messy. They make your eyes all puffy and snot just runs from your nose and that’s messy. Grown-ups aren’t messy. They are always neat. They are neat because they don’t cry. When does anyone see a grown-up walking in the street crying? Never. Even my father never cried. And my mother, she never cried. Her tears were her blood. She cried only when Papa beat her until she bled.
My stomach moans something awful as I walk along the beach. I go to the bins and have a scratch around. There is nothing but empty packets and drops of cool drink left in tins. Two men who look like hobos watch me closely as I scratch near their bin. They are drinking something.
“Hungry?” one of them says.
I go up to them. Sitting in the shadow of a spotlight the one stands up to shake my hand.
“What’s your name?”
“Azure.”
“Sit down.”
I sit next to them but not on their blanket.
“Have a drink,” the other offers me a half-empty two-litre bottle of cheap wine. I take a slug.
“Here, sit against the wall. It’s still warm from the sun. It was hot today, huh?”
“Ja, it was hot.”
We drink like that for a while. The other’s stomach also moans. He coughs and spits out a blob of green from his throat. It’s obvious that they also have no bread. But I sit with them even though I don’t drink much wine. White wine or any wine for that matter always makes my head spin.
“Don’t drink much, do you?” the one who asked me over says. “By the way I’m David and this is Pieter.”
I can hear that they’re both Afrikaans but I don’t attempt to speak their language. That’s how grown-ups fuck you. If you’re too eager to please, to say hi and make a friend they think you’re a moegoe and take you for a ride.
“It’s going to be warm tonight,” I offer.
“We’ll sleep well,” Pieter says.
“Not if you snore,” David says.
“Ag, los my uit, man. Ek is moeg.”
“Praat jy Afrikaans?” Pieter asks.
I shake my head.
“Engelsman, nè?”
“Sotho,” I say.
“Joburg,” David says.
“Ja.”
“I thought so. You don’t find many Sotho mense in Cape Town. All the darkies speak Xhosa here.”
A huge wave comes crashing on the rocks. We keep quiet
