‘What are you laughing at?’
‘I’m imagining me and your mother fucking tonight.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘You too.’
‘You must be a mad guy.’
‘Maybe. But I remember your mother telling me that she was pregnant with you about nineteen years ago.’
‘You wish, motherfucker.’
I heard the toilet flushing. Then there was a very loud bang on my door.
‘I think you are trying to shit to gain a light complexion. Good luck, black boy.’
I heard the main door to the toilet open. Before my anonymous friend could leave I swore loudly: ‘Fuck you too.’
It was now eleven forty-five. I took out the toilet paper that was blocking the hole on my right, and peeped through the hole to convince myself that there was nobody there. I stood up, wiped my arse, and lifted my penis towards the hole. But before my glans reached the hole I hesitated. What if somebody is waiting to suck my dick on the other side? What if they cut my glans? I heard footsteps. Somebody was coming. I withdrew my penis and zipped up my jeans. Outside the cubicle, I washed my hands and dried them. I looked in the mirror again. I had a lecture in five minutes time. I had to go. Time up.
five
At about half past three that afternoon I found myself at the Jorissen Street branch of the Standard Bank. The sun was still very hot. There were about nine people waiting to use the ATM. Ahead of us was a middle-aged black lady who was busy having her private conversation with the ATM. By the way she looked around her, it seemed to me that there was no agreement reached between them.
A thick red line on the pavement that bore the warning STAND BEHIND THIS RED LINE separated her from the short, moustached black man behind her.
About four or five minutes passed. The black lady stood inert in front of the ATM. Her card was still in the slot and I could hear a beeping sound as she looked around her.
‘Oh boy! What is she still doing there?’ said the blonde behind me to herself.
Making sure that nobody is watching her, or else blaming herself for putting her money in the bank instead of under her mattress, I answered her silently.
The black lady at the ATM looked around again. The blonde curled her lip. She started cursing impatiently each time the black lady inserted her card into the slot to redo her transaction. Agitated, she ruffled her thatch of long blonde hair with her manicured fingers and began tapping her right foot on the pavement.
I looked her up and down; her red dress stashed away her beautiful slender body from shoulder to hip, leaving her sunburnt legs naked. Stylish sunglasses were pushed up into her blonde hair.
At long last the cursing blonde exploded. ‘Excuse me. Do you mind helping her? She seems to be struggling,’ she pleaded, pointing at the lady at the ATM.
What she didn’t realise is that I had a lot on my mind. I was not in a good mood at all. My meeting with Dr Winterburn had taken its toll, and on top of that I had just received the grade for my first Political Studies essay and I had failed it.
With a sudden flash I turned and looked at the blonde. Anger was building up inside me. Why pick me when there are three people in front of me? I asked myself angrily. She could have even offered to help the lady herself if she was really serious about it. Why me? Is it because she is used to blacks running her errands every day?
‘Is it because I’m black?’ I asked.
With a shade of disbelief creeping into her voice the blonde responded, ‘Jeez! I was only sayi . . .’
Her face turned pale from my insinuation. Her long blonde hair wagged about as if she was looking for a hole in the ground to swallow her up immediately.
I could tell that my words had had a strong impact. Yes, it is true that I was implying that she was a racist. It was the season of change when everyone was trying hard to disown apartheid, but to me the colour white was synonymous with the word and I didn’t regret what I had said to the blonde.
Anyway, I had been told that playing the race card is a good strategy for silencing those whites who still think they are more intelligent than black people. Even in parliament it was often used. When the white political parties questioned the black parties they would be reminded of their past atrocities even if their questions were legitimate. Then the white political parties would have to divert from their original questions and apologize for their past deeds.
The blonde looked around her to see if anybody had overheard our nasty little conversation. People remained unaware of what had passed between us. I stood with a scowl on my face, anticipating her response. She finally summoned up enough courage to speak and stammering said:
‘My gosh! Why on earth do you think I’m racist? I was just . . .’
‘Because you are white,’ I answered.
‘So that qualifies . . .’
‘Yes. I know the likes of you and I’m sick and tired of pretending. When you see a black man like me I know you don’t see a man, but a black boy.’
‘I’m sorry if you feel that way. I was merely saying that maybe she would be more comfortable being assisted by you.’
I clicked my tongue. ‘Ag! Voetsek maan! What made you think she would be comfortable being helped by me and not you or anybody else in this queue, including the security officer over there?’
‘Oh jeez, I mean . . .’
‘Yeah. It’s because I’m black just like her, isn’t it? And you think you are different from us,’ I snapped.
The blonde made some attempt to absolve herself but I turned to face the ATM. The security officer had helped the black lady and I was now second in the queue.
When my turn came to use the ATM I found I had three hundred and thirty rand in my bank account. I withdrew three hundred rand and headed to the nearby Moosa Supermarket to buy some groceries. As I walked away I could feel the blonde’s eyes on my back.
Themba, one of my township friends, had finally got a job as a cashier at the Moosa Supermarket. From the shelves I took as many goodies as I wanted without even bothering to check their prices. At the till Themba would either pass my goodies through without ringing them up, or he would ring up a lesser price. As he was doing this he would say, ‘The rand is weak my friend, we must save money when we have a chance’.
The total that flashed up on the cash register was forty-seven rand and eighty-one cents. The groceries that I had filched were worth more than one hundred and eighty rand.
In order to hoodwink the shop manager, who was sitting at the other till, I tendered eighty rand in tens and twenties. Themba then gave me more than thirty rand in coins. At the door was a black security officer, I folded a ten rand note and handed it to him underneath my receipt; he smiled at me and ticked the receipt.
Along the way back to the Y and not very far from the Moosa Supermarket was a bottlestore. The change that Themba had given me at the supermarket was jangling in the back pocket of my jeans. I walked inside with my grocery bags and within a few seconds I had increased my load by twelve cold beers.
At the corner of De Korte and a small street that I didn’t know the name of, I started feeling the weight of the heavy plastic bags that I was carrying. My fingers began to twitch as if I had cut off the blood supply.
I stopped by the robots opposite