“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 brought two books to read on the plane: Summertime by JM Coetzee and The Will to Die by Can Themba. Mother glances at the books while we sit at the Wimpy.
We eat breakfast, go downstairs and wait for our flight. I board the plane, carrying my books in my backpack. I know the Cape Town – East London route all too well. I have been flying it since my first year at varsity. The planes are very small, with only two seats in each row on either side of the narrow aisle. I feel claustrophobic as soon as we enter the plane. Seeing the door close frightens me even more, though the announcement of the exit doors calms me. It introduces an element of control. I am not entirely trapped.
About ten minutes into the flight, a flight attendant comes down the aisle. “Would you like anything to drink?” she asks.
“I’d like some grape juice,” I reply.
She passes us our meal packs. Lunch is a cold chicken burger and a bar of chocolate. We eat as the plane buzzes through the clouds.
* * *
In East London, we wait for our luggage around the conveyor belt. I run to the front upon spotting my bag. Mother brought only one suitcase with her. Once we have placed our bags on a trolley, we make our way outside. The East London airport is much smaller than the one in Cape Town. Here there are only two levels; everything happens on the ground floor, with a few restaurants on the top floor.
The electronic doors slide open as we walk out of the terminal. There are a few cars parked close to the entrance. These are usually cars of VIPs. Mother had left her car parked at the airport while she was in Cape Town. It takes a few minutes to find the car. We pull out of the parking lot. Mother inserts the parking ticket into the machine and we drive out of the airport. Soon we join the highway leading to King William’s Town. The car radio is playing “Nizalwa ngobani” by Thandiswa Mazwai. For a while, only the song matters. It gives me brief happiness.
The trip takes us about half an hour. Pink and orange RDP houses appear as we approach the signboard that welcomes us to King. We turn off the highway and pass the BP garage. Up close, the houses are dilapidated, the paint peeling. We drive into our suburb. It is a quiet neighbourhood with families of moderate means. Mother stops in front of our gate; I get out of the car to open it. It’s been this way since high school: whenever we went to town, I would have to open the gate. Before we even enter the house, my grandmother comes out to meet us. She looks older than the last time I saw her. It always worries me seeing her grow old. She gives me a brief embrace. My grandmother is someone who worries a lot. She has a panicked air, and is easily startled; you can pick it up from the way she breathes. Even now I can tell that she is uneasy.
Our house has neat lawns at the front and back. The house itself is painted peachy orange. The gate is low; someone could easily jump over it. We have a black-and-white postbox above a pillar at the front gate. We know our neighbours only by name; there is no other connection. I found this quietness and coldness frustrating when we first moved to King from Alice. The streets were hauntingly still. But I got used to it over the years.
* * *
As soon as I have settled at home, I send Tongai a message to say we have arrived safely. His response is “Blessings, brethren”, a phrase he has never used to me before. I swallow it with suspicion.
Things seem smaller at home – the TV, everything. There are five of us in the three-bedroom house: my grandmother, my mother, my aunt and her daughter and myself. We have a domestic worker, Ma’Dlomo, who comes in weekdays to clean. My grandmother cooks in the evenings. Before going to bed, we convene in the lounge. We each read a passage from the Bible and we close with a prayer. I used to try to find something vilifying in the past: I’d read a verse about the Israelites being God’s people. When it was time to pray I would just kneel and close my eyes, waiting for them to finish.
My only chore is to go out and buy bread and the newspaper. On one of my trips to the store, I hear a whistle from behind. It’s a friend of mine, Luvuyo, emerging from Diva’s, a liquor den. He asks me to buy him a beer. I’m no longer working, I tell him. I sense his disappointment. It feels like he expected more from me.
“Come chill with us inside,” Luvuyo suggests.
“There are some loose ends I have to tie up,” I say.
This town carries pieces of me. We used to attend a church youth programme on Fridays when we were in high school. For Bulumko and me, it was a chance to smoke weed. We’d go there stoned. I lost a lot of weight and people kept asking me if I was well. I was finicky about eating. Before I went to sleep, I’d lie in bed thinking of all the food I’d had during the day. The less I ate, the more pleased I was. I had started gaining weight when we moved to King William’s Town from Alice. By the time I was in grade seven I had become fat. That’s how the silence began. Gradually I spoke less and less. I was shaken one year when my mother came down from Joburg for the holidays and didn’t recognise me. I had become skeletal. From that moment, I started eating again.
My grandmother has been retired for close to ten years now. She basically raised me and is the only parent I really know. In this house she beat me disciplining me when I was naughty. When I came close to dying, I realised just how much I loved her.
A childhood friend, Siyabonga, lives in the street below ours. He was with Ringo on the night of the stabbing. For many years he has been applying for jobs. He did a couple of semesters at the University of the Free State, but left when his father lost his job and could no longer pay his fees. Together we laugh about our age-mates in government, with their inflated bellies and behinds. These working men frequent a tavern close to the train station on weekends. They carry trays laden with meat and alcohol.
The horizon is purple as we sit in front of Siyabonga’s house. When he asks me why I quit my job, I tell him that I got tired of working for coloureds. That’s how it is in Cape Town, I explain. Soon the sky darkens, the conversation dries up and we part ways.
* * *
We take turns in the bathroom on Sunday morning while preparing for church. The hot water runs out after the first two people have bathed. I have to heat my water on the stove. I’m very fussy about bathing. I cannot wash with cold water as it gives me a neurotic itch. We leave my aunt behind at the house and drive to Bhisho in my mother’s BMW 3 series. Dishevelled young men in the parking lot outside the church busy themselves washing the cars. My mother raises her hand, signalling to the young man who usually cleans her vehicle. He runs towards us carrying a bucket and a sponge.
The church is an expansive orange building that used to be a Cash and Carry. It is right in the centre of Bhisho, past the garage and the police station. Bhisho is a little town of civil servants. There are a few shops that cater for the small populace. We worship surrounded by government offices.
My mother and grandmother walk to the chairs closer to the front. I take a less conspicuous position at the back. Our pastor is a light-skinned man in his mid-thirties. He wears a three-quarter gold suit like the ones worn by the preachers on TBN. He used to attend our fellowship in Alice when he was still a student at Fort Hare, my grandmother tells me. I must have been five years old back then. His passionate singing draws me into the worship. I join in to sing. I have never been much of a singer. I was always told that I was out of tune. The preaching loosens wires in my throat.