On the freeway, I nearly clocked the 325is, stopped short by Nana’s sobs. I did not look at her directly during the trip to her house. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see she had a tissue over her face.
“I don’t know what you are crying for, Nana. I am the one who is not loved here.”
She let out a torrent, which eased when we entered the township. I dropped her off with no goodbye kisses.
* * *
“Mus-sa called. He s-said you s-should meet him by the 320 at s-seven o’clock.”
My little sister Nu was watching cartoons when I got home. She was ten years old, and still sucked her thumb. My best friend since birth, she even talked with the thumb in her mouth – a habit that deeply irritated Ma. The family had learned to understand her, even with the added s’s in her speech. As for the neighbours, their conversations with Nu were kept to a minimum. It was close to six o’clock. Ma was getting ready for work.
My mother worked as a cleaning lady at Clairwood Hospital near Lamontville. She sometimes worked night shifts, and there was no warmth at home when she was gone. She had the gift of making meagre resources suffice. There were times in my childhood when I did not know exactly what her occupation was. Before her sewing machine gave out, she sewed clothes. There was also a period when she sold Tupperware. Now she made extra cash selling home-made pies.
“I have been waiting for your father. He went to test the Ford Courier an hour ago, but he still has not returned. He’ll make me late for work.”
Ma sat next to Nu on the sofa, her handbag and steamy, transparent pie container placed neatly on the coffee table.
“What time does your shift start?”
“Half past six. Are you driving? Please take me if you can. My boss is strict about punctuality.”
“After I shower, Ma,” I said.
I gave Nu the left-over Nando’s. She replaced her thumb with chicken.
The shower was bad timing, for the hot tap sprayed me with cold water. The geyser must have been switched off to save electricity. I was in and out faster than in a robbery. I thought of Nana while I got dressed and wondered whether she really loved me.
“Hurry up, Sipho, or I will be late,” Ma shouted.
She organised Zodwa, our neighbour’s daughter, to babysit Nu.
“Who are you fixing this car for?”
“Musa.”
“There must be money in Joburg. What has it been – a year or so? And he has bought himself such a beautiful car. Where is he working?”
“He only returned the other day, Ma. I have not had time to ask him about that.”
“Your aunt Bessie called. She wants you and Nu to go up to Bloemfontein for the holidays.”
We were at the last robots out of the township; streams of cars were entering and departing. Return day-shifters, exit the night-shifters.
“It is cold up there, Ma.”
“Well, Sipho, you must call her and say so, because she will be expecting you.”
Aunt Bessie lived well. She had a butchery and supermarket in her own shopping complex. She had married some politician guy she met at varsity. Aunt Bessie gave us cash just to visit her. I was fine with the money part; the drawback was boredom and the chills of a Free State winter. Her children – my cousins – spoke English all the time, with a snobbish accent. I was down with none of that plastic life.
“Take a pie. I made spinach for supper and I know you don’t like it.”
“Thanks, Ma.”
I dropped her off at the main gate of Clairwood Hospital.
For a car that breathes as freely as a BMW 325is, Durban’s West Street is best at night. It is empty, so the robots are there to be raced. The sky is pitch black, the streetlights a bright orange. The sound from the tailpipe reverberates off the buildings as if the high-rises, banks and chain stores have their own engines. I hit West Street a few minutes before seven. The 320 Building is where the city stands. At night, there are suburban and township girls in equal numbers. The upper classes wait for daddy’s car to take them home; the hardcores for anything out of the city.
Musa was finished with business by the time I arrived at the 320. We tried to sweet-talk some girls, who would not give us the time of day. Locating Vusi was not a problem – everyone in the city knew him. We found him by the inconspicuous beaches beyond Willows and the Durban Country Club.
He was there with a crew of eight – five girls, three boys. His gestures and posture screamed township. They were sitting under a gazebo, highly weeded. A braai was in full flight, and there were two cooler boxes packed with liquor.
“Brothers, to what do I owe the pleasure? I guess I can never hide in this Durban,” said Vusi, flashing his gold grille.
“We need to talk,” said Musa.
He did not have to add anything to entice Vusi into the 325is. The radio was switched off.
“I know both of you are serious about money. Well, here is a chance to make it. My friend . . . no, my brother, Sibani, told me about a hustle he has for me and two other people. What we’ll do is steal cars – real cars, six cylinders and above – change the tags, engine numbers and colour, and sell them. We’ll take them across borders if we have to. Sibani and I will raise the cash for paperwork and extras. All you two must do is get the cars.”
I had recently helped my father disconnect a troublesome anti-hijack system. Musa knew this. I had never stolen a car. Musa knew this too.
“I hear, Musa. I understand you, my brother. The problem is, I have never stolen a car before,” I said.
“It is not the hardest thing in the world, Sipho. Otherwise there would not be so many car thieves in the townships. The actual stealing is not complicated. Finding the heart to go steal is the hard part. You have to want to do it; that is the only way you will learn. Vusi, you are all quiet; what do you say?”
“I have been under a gang before, Musa. You know it is the runners that get less, even though they are the fire.”
“You have not heard the best part yet. When you bring us a car, we will pay you a few thousands – cash just to move around – but when we sell these cars, at just below the market value, half is for you two, the other half is for us.”
“Don’t be so quiet, Sipho. Say something,” Vusi said.
“I am thinking we should not ride these cars much. Digital odometers are hard to turn back, and mileage is what buyers look at most in cars,” I said.
“In fact, we will drive them only when taking them to the buyers. Must I take this nodding of heads as a yes?”
Vusi and I nodded again.
“Sibani will give us the list in a few days. Business is over. Who are those chicks, Vusi?”
“Some suburban chicks we picked up at the 320. There are some fly ones, though. You see the one . . .”
That was how it went down. I heard it as I listened to the ocean. I did not even try to go against the tide. One girl rode me on the sand, so slow it seemed to never end. We smoked weed until sunrise.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив