Thirteen Cents. K Sello Duiker

do you mean ‘nothing’?”

      “Nothing. I mean just that. Okay I was smoking a zol with Sealy and then Sealy left to do some shit with Gerald. So then Gerald comes over to me and by mistake I call him Sealy. That’s what happened.”

      “Fuck, you know how that nigger hates black people. You insulted him.”

      “Ja, but I didn’t mean to. For fuck’s sake it was a mistake. Shit. Now he’s gonna moer me for it.”

      “Listen, stop hiding, ’cause he’s been looking for you. Just go to him and say you’re sorry and that you’ll do anything he wants.”

      “Fuck.”

      “Got any money?”

      “No, I just spent it on these shoes.”

      “It would have made it easier if you had some money.”

      “I doubt it.”

      “Don’t worry, bra, you’ll live through it. He won’t kill you. See this railway line here,” he says pointing to an old scar, eight stitches that run down the side of his head.

      “Ja.”

      “Gerald gave me that. Look, don’t even think of running away. Believe me, you won’t get far. The man’s got wheels. He’ll fuck you up and kill you if you do that.”

      I breathe hard.

      “I know you’re scared, bra, but just go. But take off those shoes. You know Gerald, he’s fucked up. He thinks he’s white because he’s got straight hair and a light skin. If you show up with those shoes and your blue eyes, he’ll kill you. He’ll say, Who the fuck do you think you are? Trying to be white?”

      “But I’m not.”

      “I know that, bra. We come from Mshenguville together. I know that. But that asshole doesn’t. He’d love to have your blue eyes. Everyone knows that except you. You must try and work around you, blue eyes.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I mean you have to be the blackest person.”

      “But I am dark. Look at my skin. I’m not far from makwer­e­kwere.”

      “No, I mean you have to be more black . . . like more black than all of us. You must watch what you wear. Like those shoes. Things like that give you away. Like if people see you and they don’t know you’re right, the first thing they look at is how you look. Right?”

      “Right.”

      “So now they look at your blue eyes and your shoes and they think blue eyes, veldskoene, he’s trying to be white. That’s how people think. See what I mean?”

      “Shit. I think I do.”

      “That’s why people have beat you up all your life. They think you’re not black enough.”

      “So what do I do? Why does everything have to be so hard?”

      “Fuck, don’t panic on me. I’m helping you. Just watch what you wear. Look at makwerekwere. Try and be a little more like them.”

      “Okay,” I say pulling myself together.

      “Maybe you must buy one of their tops.”

      “Are you mad? Allen will kill me. He’ll fuck me up. He’ll say, who are you trying to be? and I won’t know what to say. Fuck no. But I’ll make a plan.”

      “Take off your shoes,” he tells me. “I know a guy who knows another guy. I’m sure we can get you other shoes. I’ll sell these at one of the second-hand shops.”

      “Don’t go to the one in Long Street.”

      “Which one?”

      “You know the one near Mama Africa, the one with the nice woman who works there. That’s where I bought them.”

      “Ja, I know the one you’re talking about. No, keep the socks,” he tells me.

      I take out my strops from my jacket.

      “These are the things Allen gave me.”

      “Ja, Allen. I’m not surprised. Did he shit you out?”

      “Always.”

      “He’s another bastard who thinks he’s white.”

      “I thought he was white.”

      “No, you can see it in his eyes. I know he looks white but if you look at him closely you can see some coloured blood. He hates it, that’s why he’s so fucked up. I mean, imagine being nearly white but not quite. Know what I mean?”

      “Mmm.”

      “That’s why he’s such an asshole.”

      “Ever seen him beat up one of his chicks? The other day he completely fucked up this white bitch who couldn’t keep her mouth shut.”

      “Ja, but there’s more to it than that. It’s that white thing. It just eats him up that he’s not all white. Why do you think he’s always so well dressed?”

      “I see what you mean.”

      “Check.”

      “Grown-ups are fucked up.”

      “No, Cape Town is fucked up. Really.”

      “You’re right, it’s Cape Town, not the people.”

      “And the people. Don’t forget about the people. They’re also fucked up.”

      “And now I must face them,” I sigh.

      “Look, you better go. It’s best if you hand yourself in. Know what I mean?”

      “If he catches me first . . .”

      “Fuck knows what he’ll do to you.”

      “Remember how my eyes used to get me in trouble at school?”

      “Ay, they used to moer you at school.”

      “Nothing changes.”

      I chew my nails.

      “Come back in a couple of days’ time.”

      “If I’m still walking.”

      “Don’t be so negative. Who knows, you might live to laugh about this one day.”

      I look at him and say nothing. This is my life we’re talking about, I think.

      “Anyway, come back in a couple of days’ time and I’ll have shoes for you.”