Short Stories

Beaufort West 2034

World Cup 

Quarter-life Crisis

The city has changed. After years of communicating in gestures and elaborate modes of body language -- I can understand again. As I stand cramped in the third class train carriage to Cape Town's City Centre my ears are assaulted by the trivial tales nonchalantly sprouting from the working class.

Another sweltering morning slowly unfolds.

A voice rings out above the idle banter, unwinds and lets rip to the fact that judgement is coming soon and it’s best to be saved and sure, than to continue to live in a Jesus free world. The third class carriage evangelists have become the highlight of my morning commute. Now and again the carriage is blessed with a charismatic voice and the ability of the speaker is gauged by the number of heads bobbing to the message. Today a young woman is all fire, brimstone and tears but her testimony of a past life engulfed by crystal meth does not arouse much interest in the passengers. Instead they chat casually, read about scandals in their cheap tabloids: The Voice and Die Son, while subconsciously preparing themselves for another day’s routine grind to pay the bills.

I returned to my homeland two months ago. I was excited at the prospect of seeing the mountain again, of being home, of being amongst my own. I crawled the pubs with old friends, braaied hunks of red meat and made impromptu trips to swim in the ocean, but after a few weeks of revelry, I felt completely isolated. The city wasn’t talking to me, or if she was I simply wasn’t listening. I was told to see the new stadium which was built for the soccer World Cup in 2010, yet all I saw was an unsightly protrusion when before there was none. The stadium is a symbol of how organized our city Cape Town is and how she spat in the face of doom mongers who said the stadium would never be completed. All I felt when I saw it was an unnerving feeling of loss.

When I step out of the cesspool of stench I realize that I’m in Observatory, an ex -playground of mine which used to be infamous for its underground nightlife scene. I have no cash so I resign myself to simply walking around to see if the suburb too has changed.

I exit the station and see a friend from what feels like a different lifetime ago. Connor’s sparse frame has been enhanced by a few kilograms of muscle. This surprises me greatly. He walks up to me and we shake hands.

“So, how was the traveling?” he asks. Before I get to answer the question he rifles off another one , “You don’t do that anymore, do you?” This question hangs in the air and makes me look at him more intensely, bordering on critically. I see hunger, want and lust shining embarrassingly from his eyes.

“No, I don’t bro,” I reply.

“Gees, Dice. I’ve been clean for a day and I’m turkeying bad. I’m working now and I’m getting paid pretty well, so I went on a binge last week. You know how it goes, right?”

Connor wants to do heroin. I know this and he knows this. But he does not want to suggest it. He wants me to hold his hand and lead him so he doesn’t have to be entirely to blame for another relapse.

“I saw on Facebook you’re engaged,” I say.

“Yeah, but as you can imagine she doesn’t like this type of thing.”

“So you’re not going to work today?” I ask.

“I can’t. The sickness is fresh. I bought some weed. You want to come and blaze?”

Connor and I met at university. By routinely occupying the patch of grass outside the Arts building we found ourselves in the same smoking crew, spending day after day skipping lectures and smoking marijuana at the Old Zoo. At the time he was a business science student, fixated on how many women he’d be able to sleep with once he graduates and gets a decent salary.

When I moved into student housing the next year he was a frequent feature in my room, but by then he had found Thai White and was using marijuana more as a starter and dessert than as a main course. Soon he stopped going to campus altogether, arriving in my room as I was about to leave and still anchored to my bed when I returned. Later rocks of crack cocaine became his starter and this vicious cycle of feeding continued day after day. I started indulging in these meals, eating into his stash but I was providing the venue and had no need for reimbursement. I was careful around the heroin as a vomit fest ensued whenever I used. To this day the acrid smell of burning foil invokes those memories and with it the inevitable gag reflex.

As we walk through the streets of Observatory I notice faces have changed but the masks are still well maintained. I call out to a girl with blonde dreadlocks whom I think I know, but she does not acknowledge me. We wade leisurely through to the residential part of the suburb and are accosted by a group of streetwise beggars. Automatically they pitch to me and ignore Connor. It’s as if my smell is not at one with the city, and they can sniff I’ve been away, and thus an easy mark. I reply in Afrikaans, but it is broken and faulty due to lack of use. They continue and I have to glare at them before they finally relent.

“You’ve been away too long, my friend. You can barely even speak Afrikaans anymore,” says Connor, trying to force a smile but his brain and his body will only truly smile if he allows them their vice.

“I know, but muscle memory will kick in sooner or later. I’ve just been away from it too long.”

Afrikaans is the lingua franca of my mixed race, coloured people. Everyone can speak English but to reply to Afrikaans in it, would automatically put one in a box. It’s the same box where the easily hustled and pompous are doomed to dwell.

We reach the front of a large Victorian house. “How many housemates do you have?” I ask. “None, we live here by ourselves. It’s a house for Dutch exchange students but no-one has moved in for the past three months or so.”

We walk inside and the living room is immaculate. The furniture is new and the walls decorated with striking oil pastel paintings. I laugh uncontrollably for a few seconds.

“Why are you laughing?” Connor asks.

“It’s just that I never pictured you in this type of setting,” I say trying to control my outburst. The place seems anti-Connor and anti-heroin. He would be much more comfortable in dirty, run down and squalid surroundings. It feels sacrilegious tainting this room by doing heroin in it.

“Let me guess, you’ve never used in this room, right?” I ask.

“What makes you think that?”

I don’t answer and instead I sit down on the couch. “So, where’s the missus to be?” I enquire. Connor looks at his watch as he flops down on the couch opposite me. “She’s expected any minute now.”

He fumbles around in his pockets and retrieves a small bag of weed and Rizla. He flings the bag at me and I catch it effortlessly. “Check that stuff out. I bet you don’t get quality like this overseas,” he beams.

Iopen the bag, inspecting the small marijuana heads with the critical eye of a brain surgeon. As I inhale the aroma the memories wash over me. Memories of a life I have tried to forget. I remember standing at the airport with a newly printed degree, believing that the plane would be my redemption from constant temptation, and perpetual rapid cycling of highs and comedowns. I thought that the drugs would grant me insight into the elitist world of artistic brilliance. Instead all it did was stifle it. My five years of drug free travel allowed me to see this clearly, and in my relative sobriety I found a muse that I am incapable of taming.

“Really nice,” I say and pass the bag back to him. He starts rolling a joint on the black marble table separating us.

“I don’t want to talk about me because as you can see I’m still very much screwed up. I can’t get rid of this thing,” he says sadly. “So what do you think about coming home to a Zuma inspired South Africa?”

“I still voted ANC and I probably will until I die,” I reply and continue, “Did you know that over 60% of people who voted overseas voted DA? Cape Town and the Western Cape are still being mind fucked by Apartheid that they find it incapable to vote for a black man.”

In this regard my city has not changed at all. Psychological ploys cut deep and it’s a wound that’s going to take decades to heal.

“I don’t want to talk politics. In the next few hours I’ll be restricted to my bed, shivering, sweating pools and howling at the moon.” Connor faux laughs and grimaces a smile as he lights the joint.

“Why don’t you check yourself in? Get some Valium or something to take the edge off.”

“No, I’ve got to front that I’m trying to fight the addiction.. that I know that I messed up and should be taking responsibility for the relapse.”

“Front for whom?” I ask as the sounds of keys rattling in a keyhole makes Connor jump and hastily pass me the joint.
I gaze at the red coal at the tip of the joint. I’ve had enough disappointment in the Mother City and it’s time for me to let loose. I take a long, luxurious drag, filling my lungs with a different type of redemption. I take another few in quick succession and all my problems vanish as the smoke I exhale disappear into nothingness. I’m completely in my head for a few seconds and don’t notice the young brunette who seats herself next to a subdued Connor.

“Hi. I’m Mirte,” she says smiling and offering me her hand. “I’m Connor’s fiancé,” she continues in a bastardized American accent.

“It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you,” I say as I smile and shake her hand. "My name is Dice and I've known this mad man for years.”

“He is crazy, isn’t he?” she says laughing whilst grasping Connor’s hand.

This girl is a repair woman: a woman who dates wayward men so she can try and fix them. That can be the only explanation. She’s well put together in a conservative black pencil skirt and expensively tailored jacket worn over a pink silk sweater. A politically correct Dutchwoman; living in Cape Town and about to marry a drug addicted local must give her a thrill.

“So what do you do?” she enquires.

“Just got back recently.”

“Really? That’s interesting. Where were you?”

“Everywhere,” I say as I pass her the joint, content with its effects on my mind. She takes it without looking at it and quickly passes it to Connor.

“Have you been to the Netherlands?”

“Yeah. Naturally I spent some time in Amsterdam but I preferred Utrecht. There’s a great hostel there called Strowis.”

“I’m from Utrecht!” she shrieks excitedly.

"It’s a really fantastic place, you’re very lucky. For the past year I’ve been in East Asia. China, Japan, Korea.”

“You make me so envious,” she says and runs her hand through her hair.

On her wrist is an antique gold watch that from my vantage point looks extremely expensive. “That’s a beautiful watch you have,” I say. Self consciousness flushes and frames her face for a second.

“Oh. It’s a Patek Philippe vintage watch. Thank you for the compliment. I know it’s a men’s watch but my father got it as a gift from this client he was working with, and because he doesn’t have any sons he gave it to me.” She strokes the beautiful timepiece absentmindedly and continues,”It’s so hot today. Cape Town is such a great city, such beautiful weather. A few of the girls and me are going to the beach for the afternoon. Would you guys like to come?”

Connor quickly shakes his head.

“I’ll put on some music so you can enjoy seeing each other again.” She rises and walks over to the Hi-fi in the corner of the room. She fiddles around with it for a bit and soon the room is a cacophony of sublime orchestral instruments. She walks back over and pecks Connor on the cheek.

“Is this Mozart, Requiem Opera?” I ask. She turns to me, “Yes. Choeur des marais, do you like it?”

“I love it,” I reply as she walks daintily out of the room.

I love listening to classical music when I’m stoned. Every instrument peaks as if the symphony is taking place in your head. Every wave of sound you hear connects you with the composer on a grand level that is indecipherable to the sober ear.

“Your fiancé is cool,” I say to Connor.

“Yes, I’m very lucky,” he replies with a frown on his face.

We sit in silence listening to the music and passing the joint back and forth before Mirte returns dressed in an orange summer dress. She unconsciously takes the Patek Philippe watch off and puts it on a little pillar above the Hi-Fi, kisses Connor, smiles at me and then leaves.

“Listen, Dice. There’s something I have to tell you. Something that has been weighing on my mind for years.” He passes me the last of the joint and I suck the life out of it, before discarding it in the ashtray on the table.

“What is it?”

He inhales sharply then continues, “Back when we started doing all of this stuff and I
realized that I was addicted to H,” he stops and sighs deeply. “I tried to get you addicted too.”

“What does that mean?”  I ask glaring at him in confusion.

Another deep sigh supplemented by a pause. “I was scared, bro. So, I tried to make you do as much
H as possible in the twisted hope that you would become addicted as I was. I’m sorry, man”.

“Why are you doing this? Is this one of your steps to recovery or something?” I ask angrily.

“I’m really sorry, bro,” he says, his voice tight and grim.

“What do you want me to say, Connor?”

I may have been stoned but this revelation has knocked it out of me and all I want now is to knock a
dent in Connor’s face.

“I understand if you’re angry. But like I said, I’m sorry. I was an addict. I am an addict.”

“Why must you hide behind that label all the time? You wanted me to be like you, and I had issues
with all those other drugs! You wanted to make me a heroin addict?”

Connor raises his hand as if I’m pointing a gun at him. “Look, I’m sorry alright. I just needed to tell
you.”

“It’s disappointing. That’s all I can say, really.”

I walk over to the Hi-Fi and turn the music up. I close my eyes and let Mozart wash over me. I turn the volume up as loud as it can go and then I calmly walk out. I leave without saying anything. I don’t even make eye contact with him. I know that as soon as the door closes behind me he’ll be reaching for his phone and that silver foil, and this incident would have evaporated in his opioid addled mind.

Twenty minutes later I’m at Observatory station. I look at my ticket. I examine it and see the Patek Philippe sign on the back. The city has changed, but so have I. Change can be considered a beautiful thing. This ticket is taking me somewhere. That somewhere is anywhere but here.

END

Zizkov

I jab the blade vigorously into him, twisting it as it slides into flesh. He tries to defend the blows but my knife work has been perfected in this place, and his futile attempts only opens up more space for me to hit. He buckles over as thrusts four and five hit their mark, surgically concentrated around the heart.

He screams and begs for redemption but his pleas are drowned out by her name. I leave him on the floor of his cell, moments away from dying in his own blood. As I glide out I chant her name softly, my mind at ease as I picture her writing on the page. I feel like a Hare Krishna devotee and her name is my Maha mantra.

My darling Wayne,
I think of you when the first snow falls and all I want is to be wrapped up in your arms..

Her name is Katka.

I love the way her name sounds when I say it. I adore those two syllables much like I cherish the hope she has given me.

Hope.

I walked into this pit as an arrogant eighteen year old kid – to an extent looking forward to my stretch in prison. In my world a stint in Die Mang gives you status, it’s the PHD that any true criminal academic craves.

It’s her world that I crave. The one with the spires. The Old Town and the New. The city of Kafka. Once the home of Tesla and Mozart.

She lives in the suburb of Zizkov in Prague, Czech Republic. Zizkov is renowned for having the highest number of pubs per capita than any suburb in the world. I haven’t had a drop in five years and all I can think of is Zizkov.  Zizkov and Katka, my obsession and my hope.

In prison I belong to the 26 brotherhood, the second most powerful prison gang in the whole of Southern Africa. Our influence though is not solely confined to the four walls as our network extends to the outside underworld too. Our specialty is theft and the hustle – primarily we work with money and we ensure that the prisons don’t run dry of routine prison comforts such as marijuana, crystal meth, alcohol and cigarettes. In prison folk lore we are known as Son Op which means that we work when the sun is up, compared to the 28 brotherhood who are Son Af and forced to do their work at night. The wardens know that they don’t really run the prisons, the number gangs do, and our generals run it with the same efficiency of a Napoleon or a Sun Tzu in their prime.

My hit tonight was sanctioned. I haven’t had to knife anyone in at least three years but instead of being assigned the job, like before, this time I actually asked for it. One of the first things I realized when I came to this place was that you never get anything for free. The first night in the cells I witnessed a naive middle class looking kid accept a few cigarettes and a chocolate bar from an older gangster. The poor kid probably thought he was making a friend, if only he knew then that this particular friend would be shoving his dick in his month for the rest of his time in jail.

My problem was that I needed a passport. When you're growing up in the windy, poverty engulfed streets of the Cape Flats you barely get to leave the township, so why would you even entertain the idea of getting a passport to leave the country? Before I started writing to Katka I wasn’t even aware that you needed a passport to leave. I hadn’t met anyone that had left Cape Town before so I suppose I had no point of reference.

The generals knew that I was getting paroled soon. What I needed was a clean passport because having a criminal record does somewhat hinder your freedom of movement. Knowing that they weren’t simply going to hand it to me, I volunteered to carry out a killing for them. The guy I knifed was an informer and had his own cell. Conveniently his cell wasn’t locked, which in a fair world could be considered an oversight by a warden, but in this twisted prison world the whole thing was orchestrated by the gang.

As my head hits the rolled up filthy blanket acting as my pillow, I think of her. I share a cell with sixty other men and most of them are despicable human beings. They have no need for a passport and they have no need for hope. I drown out the incessant crystal meth inflicted voices, the moaning as one man comes into another, the snoring and nightmarish screams of those asleep. I drown it out by holding my head under the water. She is the ocean and I am completely immersed. Her words are the oxygen that I need to live in this place. Tomorrow I come for up for air.

Tomorrow.

I think of us walking in Old Town hand in hand among the tourists. I want to show you my city. I want to show you Prague and Zizkov. You’re going to love it..

I walk out of Pollsmoor prison and I gaze at the mountain. It’s the first time in five years that my view is not obstructed by a cage. If I wanted to I could go and climb that mountain this instant. Choice is a wonderful thing and my days of having none are over.

I choose her.

The second thing I see as I walk out is my mother’s face. Every prisoner has a special place in their hearts for their mother. I’ve heard the most hardened criminals call on their mother in times of strife. At least half the prisoners in my cell have the word tattooed on them in various styles - based on the novice tattoo artist’s skill level. A mother is an extremely special being, even to those who have been cast out by society.

My mother hugs and kisses me as the tears stream down her wrinkles. I hold her close and tell her everything is going to be okay. That I’m fine and that things are going to change for the better. Of course, my mother never believed that I was guilty of the crime that brought me to prison. As far as she was concerned I was simply hanging out with the wrong crowd. A mother’s capacity for self-delusion is absolute.

We take a crowded minibus taxi to Retreat station and as we get off I notice a little book store. My mother is surprised that I want to go in and she is even more surprised that I know exactly which authors I want to buy. In our little council flat the only book we had was The Bible, and even this was rarely used, except for marijuana rolling paper.

Wayne, my dear, I want to sit in Riegrovy Sady and read to you. I want you to read to me. I’ve just read a Pablo Neruda book of poetry..

I leave the book store with five titles, two of which I’ve read already but had to return to Pollsmoor’s library. It’s a great feeling owning your own books. It’s an even better feeling knowing that you're going to be sharing them with a soul mate.

My first week at home I spend with my mother. I know that I won’t be seeing her for a very long time after I leave and I also know that when I get to Zizkov I am going to have to work a legitimate job. This is something that terrifies me for I have never worked in my life, but I know that my mother struggles on her pension and I would like for her to move out of this township. We’ve dwindled away the hours talking and eating: tripe curries, tomato bredies, bobotie – the cornerstones of Cape Malay cuisine, and an easy 3 Michelin stars compared to the prison grub I’ve become so accustomed to.

At the end of the week I take a trip into the City Centre to pick up my shiny new passport and plane ticket. According to the generals I should also be picking up around R10, 000 which is equivalent to around 1000 Euro and should last me about a month in Prague before I need to find a job of some sort. At Pollsmoor I used to earn this amount every three months, unfortunately most of it had to go back in to the gang. A warped sense of tithing but instead of a tenth it was most of what I made.

To get to the City Centre I have to take 2 minibus taxis and a train. My recent love for reading has made me realize that this is due to the Apartheid regime and their slick ideas of making sure that those who were not White would never live close to the true beauty of Cape Town. I frown as the train hurtles past the impoverishment I will be escaping from when I get to Zizkov.

My hook up for the passport, ticket and cash is a Nigerian. I’m sure that there are many decent, law abiding Nigerians but unfortunately I’ve yet to meet one. Nigeria has a population of over 100 million and I’m certain that the ones I routinely used to run into are considered scum in their own country too.

I meet the Nigerian in his flat in Pepper Street. The inside is immaculately furnished with cocaine money: black suede lounge sets beautifully contrasted with white marble tiles and crystal. Unfortunately, the tasteful furniture is ruined by large posters of Nollywood films adorning the walls.

There are two big Nigerians on the couches. They nod as their boss, Jeff, introduces me as a “Twenty Six” who has just been released.

“Sit down, we need to talk, my friend.” says Jeff. I take a seat with my eyes hovering on the two big guys. He asks me if I would like a beer and I reply “Yeah, sure but only if you have Pilsner Urquell.”

Jeff laughs and says “You think you in Czechoslovakia already? Naa bra, we don’t have Pilsner, you’re going to have to do with Castle.”

One of the big Nigerians disappears into the kitchen as Jeff continues: “Listen I have everything you need, but I know that R10, 000 is not gonna cut it in Europe. You need more money and we need one more man for this job.”
My beer appears and I open it and take a sip. I light a Marlboro as my brain makes a few quick calculations. Yes, I do need more money – everyone needs more money. The gang will be angry with me if they find out, but they won’t have to find out and although their tentacles stretch far they do not stretch all the way to Central Europe. On the other hand one can never truly trust a Nigerian.

“What kind of job are we talking about here, what benefits?” I enquire innocently, trying to hide my enthusiasm.

“R100, 000 and it’s just a job. In this case you wouldn’t even have to go all the way.”

I know that Katka is not one to stress about money, but the last thing I would want is to be a financial burden on her. I intend to dazzle her family with my newly acquired book smarts and ambition, but I am well aware that men are often judged on their ability to provide and 11,000 Euro buys me time.

I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to have your beautiful cappuccino skinned babies..

Driving and guarding cash – in – transit vans is the most dangerous job in South Africa. It’s so dangerous and the fatality rate is so high that the poor guys condemned to working this job always have their finger on the trigger willing to shoot at anything which even remotely poses a threat to them. This has manifested in the general public being absolutely terrified when seeing one of these vans parked in front of a bank or a shopping centre. People literally walk in wide arcs around these men, fearing the eye contact which would deem them as a hazard.

Their problem is that they are sitting ducks and usually they are simply overwhelmed by the man power and tactical nous employed by the crooks. Jeff is no fool and he has planned this particular operation for months. A shipment of Krugerrands is scheduled to be driven from Cape Town to the university town of Stellenbosch today. According to our inside man there is one driver and two guards on this trip. One of them is our man and will be sharing the spoils with us. He’s been able to provide times as well as the route they’re taking. I don’t blame him for being dirty, his meagre pay cheque does not make up for the fact that every day he wakes up with the very real fear of never seeing his family again.

In the past hijackers have used nails and other sharp materials placed in the road to puncture tires, but the cash – in transit companies have become accustomed to this method, and now all the vans sport stronger, reinforced tires.
I’m sitting in a stationary Ford Bantam truck renowned for its strength. I’m cradling an AK-47 as one of the big Nigerians sits calmly behind the steering wheel. We’ve been sitting tight at this particular point in the road for at least two hours, waiting for Jeff’s cue.

Finally we get the text from the other Ford Bantam truck, which has been following the van for 5 kilometres. In this truck are Jeff and another 3 Nigerians. We watch the van speed by and the Bantam following as my driver accelerates to keep up with them. I watch as Jeff’s truck hits the van on the side causing it to veer to the side ofthe road. My driver does the same and this time the hit is so powerful that the van is forced off the highway and onto the grassland, slowing to a gradual stop.

It feels like I’m in slow motion as I watch the civilian’s push down harder on their pedals as they witness the spectacle unfolding in front of them. No-one dares to stop because they know that it would be considered suicide. Jeff’s shouting lulls me out of my brief stupor and I’m quickly out of the car and spraying bullets at the van.

The rest of the gang is following suit and when the bullets cease the two guards appear with their hands up. We know that the driver is the one with the keys to the back of the van and he is foolishly trying to return fire while crouching behind a tire. In an act of pure madness and panic the driver decides to run for it.

My bed yearns for you, my love. It yearns for you so very much..

In my mind he is the obstacle to me seeing Katka and I dash after him spraying bullets as I do so. As I sprint I notice a pair of dice tattooed on his neck. For a second my mind is reminded of the huge risks I’ve been taking, but the Katka mantra repeats itself and I regain my calm as my bullets hit home. He collapses and Jeff is quick to run up to him and grab the keys. Five minutes later and we’ve unloaded the van, tied up the guards and are driving off to the spot where our getaway truck is stationed.

The next day I’m sitting in a bar at Cape Town International Airport.

I’m so close.

I’m drinking a Pilsner Urquell and I’m dressed in a new black suit. Jeff has used his connections for currency exchange and I have 9000 Euro in my carry – on luggage. Apparently it’s illegal to be carrying this much cash into the European Union, but I’m channelling Jonny Depp in Blow and I’m feeling really relaxed. I left R10, 000 with my mother promising her that as soon as my life takes off in Prague, I will send more, hopefully enough for a ticket for her to come and visit us.
I glance up at the news on the bar TV. A pretty blonde reporter is covering yesterday’s robbery. The driver with the dice tattoo is not dead and instead is paralysed from the waist down. I am relieved to know that he’s alive because this is the start of my new life and I don’t want to be doing those things anymore. I want to focus on Katka and I want her to be proud of the man that I am about to become.

Going through customs is a breeze and my business attire seems to have rendered me invisible. My shiny new passport works a charm. As the plane takes off I wave goodbye to Cape Town. I don’t intend to ever return.
I land in Prague and my heart is beating fast. She is my soul mate and I cannot wait to see her. I glide through customs and the baggage claim as if they don’t exist. They’re mere illusions on my road to reality.

I get to the arrivals lounge and I see her. Her blue eyes are sparkling happiness as I rush over. My eyes are locked on hers and only as I get closer do I notice the chair. I have to bend down to kiss and hug her. She tries to mutter something about the wheelchair and how she’s sorry for not telling me, but I don’t hear it.

All I hear is her name, and all I feel is hope.

END

Small House

She’s beautiful. I cannot stop staring at her. Its forty degrees Celsius in this bus and people are sweating profusely. She doesn’t sweat though; she shines: a beautiful gleam basking her perfect ebony skin.

The bus has been trudging slowly through the African countryside; the driver perpetually aware of the crossing livestock, who seem to think that they own the road. I’ve been traveling for two weeks and am on my way to Gaberone from Maun. The air in the bus is sticky and hot, and to pass the time I’ve been sporadically smoking marijuana whenever the bus stops. I’ve been doing the illegal deed in the open. It seems as if the Botswana people are at ease with the intoxicating smoke, or they simply allow travellers their vice, given that we are spending quite a lot of money in their country.

I’m traveling solo which is something that I’ve come to enjoy over the years. There’s a certain special type of freedom that solo traveling allows one. It’s the ability to do whatever you want without the influence or opinion of anyone else. There are no itineraries and no place that I particularly have to be. It’s just me and the soil; it’s just me and Africa. I am truly the captain of my fate.

When I was younger I used to have trouble speaking to women. I decided to remedy this by learning a lot of seduction “pick up” theory. In the “pick up” there is something called the ten second rule. Basically it states that you should approach within ten seconds of seeing a beautiful woman.

My ten seconds have come and gone. I’ve been staring at this goddess, watching her read what seems like a tabloid magazine. I blame my lack of initiative on the weed, as it does hinder one in certain respects.

The bus stops to let a few people off and a few women, babies strapped to their backs, get on selling cobs of corn. For the first time in two hours her eyes are averted from her magazine and she buys a cob. I’m not hungry but I buy three to impress her, to show that I’m not one of those travellers: the ones who travel but then live on a staple diet of Mcdonalds, KFC and instant noodles. I’ll probably have the munchies soon anyway, so it makes sense in that regard too.
She makes brief eye contact with me as I pay the lady. I smile but it’s probably a goofy one because she giggles. Finally my pick up muscle memory kicks in prompting me to take a seat next to her. She smiles sheepishly but then looks down at her magazine. I have around fifty well-rehearsed openers – initiators of conversation -- that I can use in this particular situation.

Instead I open with, “This corn looks delicious”.

“It is, but you should have asked her to put some Aromat on it for you.”

I look at her corn and it’s covered with little crystals of salt and MSG.

“It’s fine, I prefer things all natural”, I say grinning, and noticing that she’s wearing a weave. It’s cut in a bob style and frames her high cheekbones and big almond eyes perfectly. I imagine her without the weave, completely bald, and she would still look like someone who’s just stepped off a Victoria’s Secret set. In her case I simply don’t care – all natural or not, she’s the most stunning being I’ve ever had the pleasure of encountering.

“Are you coming from Maun?” she asks.

“Yes, I spent a week in the Okavango Delta.”

“Where are you from?”

“South Africa. Cape Town”

“I’m sorry for your loss. He was a great man.”

“Thank you. It takes a great man to be locked up unfairly and still come out with no resentment. He was a gift to Africa; a gift to the world.”

“True. I’m from Maun.

“Cool. It’s a beautiful place. Have you been to the Delta?

She shakes her head.

“Most people in Botswana haven’t been.”

“That’s a bit sad.”

“A little, yes. I love that it brings foreign money into Botswana, but with foreign money comes an increase in prices. Every year it becomes more expensive, therefore it becomes just that little bit more difficult for the ordinary people to go. It’s like living in a place which actually caters for other people.”

The bus stops and a group of elderly men get on. They’re wearing mismatched remnants of Christmases and baptisms from decades ago. These are simple people, they live a simple life, I think, before staring into her exquisite pools of light brown, and regaling her with tale after tale of my adventures in far flung postal districts. She’s intrigued by my stories and soon that damn tabloid magazine is discarded on the floor of the bus. It’s true, travel makes boring people interesting. If you were interesting before, it only adds to your appeal.

When I ask her questions about herself she seems guarded, but every syllable from her lips enchants me, and is a welcome reprieve from the stock standard tourist conversations I’ve been having with most from the West – relentlessly boring interactions all hinged on bragging rights based on who was able to see the most wildlife or got the closest to the animals.

She tells me that she’s a student in Gaberone due to graduate this year. She’s actually from a small village close to Maun and has never left Botswana. The drive has flown by and soon we are in the dimly lit capital city. I want to see this girl again, but she rebuffs my offer of a drink date by claiming that she has to study for a test. Rejection is only rejection in the moment, and if there’s one thing that you can be sure of is that time will tick on, and a moment will get recycled for a new one. I quickly shift to the new moment and ask her for her phone number, telling her that I’d love to meet her again before I leave, if only to discuss more of my thoughts about her country. She seems uneasy as I ask, but writes: REFILWE 0787997825 in my notebook anyway. We say our goodbyes and she’s gone, but I know that I’ll see her again. It’s inevitable; I can feel it.

I jump into a metre taxi and the first thing I ask the driver is to take me to a slum so I can buy more weed. The driver glares at me and tells me that he’s some kind of a holy roller and doesn’t like it when people abuse drugs, so he’ll take me to the backpackers but no “drug runs”. He looks like he’s in his early sixties and I figure that it would be interesting picking his mind, so I accept his conditions and I compliment him on his taste in music as Miles Davis is playing loudly from the tape deck. As we drive through the Gaberone streets, I ask him why the lights are so dim.

“That you have to ask our president. We have some power problem so we buy from South Africa. These dark roads are because of that.”

“Interesting”, I say.

“Yes, our president! A man that has never had the decency to get married but is leading a country with the highest HIV in the world. In a country where sex is a problem we have a man who can’t even commit to a partner!"

“I suppose he’s leading by example”, I joke.

“A bad example.”

“Is the HIV really that bad though? I mean, I can only really base my understanding on things I’ve read and one cannot always trust what you read.”

“Botswana is Sodom and Gomorrah, my friend. And like God punished that awful city so he is also judging Botswana. Here we have old married men having sex with young, young girls.”

“Trans-generational sex”,  I add.

“Oh there is a name for it? Yes, that then. We also have lots of passion killings because sometimes it feels like every non-Christian in this country is promiscuous.”

The driver’s cell phone rings and interrupts his train of thought. He speaks in Basotho and although I cannot understand, I can tell that he’s upset with what’s being said on the other end.

“Do you care if I pick someone up quickly? It’s on the way.”

“No problem”, I say, nodding.

We stop in front of a block of flats and a skinny girl comes running out and jumps into the seat next to me. She’s very drunk, very scantily dressed and actually very sexy. She asks the driver something in Basotho but again he seems upset and barks at her aggressively.

“It’s a free country. If you wanna fuck people then fuck them! She shouts in English.

“I’m just trying to help you”, he says.

“And I appreciate that old man, but we’re young and living in a different world.”

I look at the girl properly. She can’t be older than 18, and I also realise that she’s very light skinned compared to the rest of the population. Her cheekbones are high and prominent much like a high fashion model.

“Are you from here? I enquire.

“Yes. She’s a bushman. The most lost people in the whole of Bostswana!” says the driver, which causes the girl to start laughing hysterically.

“Yet the most beautiful women, right? Come on old man, say it, you dark niggers love our light skin.”

“You have to learn girl. You really need to learn. What did this man do to you? Why did you call me?”

“Nothing.”

“Didn’t sound like nothing.”

“We just had an argument over something that he told me. It scared me a little so I had to get out. He was talking about this friend of his, but you know when men talk about their friends, especially the rich ones, sometimes they’re really talking about themselves.”

“What did he say”, I ask, very much intrigued.

“Okay. So this friend of his, he had a girl on the side, you know, someone that’s not his wife. So this guy was good to the girl’s family because she was poor and from some shit village. He would send them a parcel of meat every month. One day he finds out that the girl is cheating on him. When the parcel arrived at the end of the month, yes it was filled with meat for their Seswaa, but also human meat because he cut her tits off and sent it to her family! It’s like he was threatening me with that story but I’m a Beyonce Independent woman! I do what I want.

“Wow, that’s intense!” I exclaim.

“Passion violence”, says the driver.

The girl laughs again. “The men here are crazy! They think they own your pussy here. This other friend of mine, he was fucking this married girl and the husband got suspicious. One day he told his wife that he was going on a business trip to Joburg. But he just left for a few hours and came back. When he came back he found my friend fucking his wife doggy style. He went to his son’s room, took a cricket back, and smashed my friend’s head in. My friend has brain damage now. The husband got off. He told the police that he thought my friend was an intruder and was raping his wife. The bitch said nothing. And my friend has brain damage.”

We stop at my backpackers and I thank the driver and pay him. The girl slips a card into my hand. I watch the taxi drive off and I drop the card without looking at it. I don’t sleep too well even though the bed in the backpackers is comfortable. My brain is bombarded with images of cut off boobs and bloodied cricket bats.

When I wake up I have a full English breakfast and talk to a couple of the travelers. As expected all the travelers are from the West, their dollars, euros and pounds making Africa a relatively affordable travel destination. Most want to travel the whole continent, modern day bastard versions David Livingstone and Henry Morton Stanley. I recall what Refilwe told me yesterday about her never having left Botswana and it upsets me because it feels like the most beautiful things in Africa seems out of bounds to the ordinary African, yet some of the spawn of the colonialists are reveling in these pleasures.

I call Refilwe and just hearing her voice pushes the bad mood to the side and I’m thinking of her smile, and not of severed breasts, bloodied cricket bats or ignorant tourists. She says I can meet her at a coffee shop in the city centre and instead of calling a cab I decide to find my own way to her.

I arrive fifteen minutes late, having walked most of the way and then finally relenting and jumping on a bus. She flashes a nervous smile when I sit down opposite her, but it’s a smile nonetheless, and it makes me feel good. We talk for hours over coffee. She tells me about her plans to do her Masters in Oxford next year, about her single parent family, and she speaks in depth about the Education degree she is about to complete. Her end goal is to open a bunch of Waldorf schools all over Botswana. I just listen, on some level it feels like no-one has ever really listened to her. When she speaks about teaching and educating people her face takes on a glow that one only sees on the truly passionate. It’s a glow that I can easily become addicted to.

When she finds out that I have yet to try Seswaa – Botswana’s national dish – she teases me about what a good tourist I am. Her nervousness is completely gone and she seems at ease with me. We leave the coffee shop and head to a bar which she claims serves the best Seswaa in Gaberone. She makes a point of saying “in Gaberone” because according to her, the best Seswaa in Botswana can be found in her mother’s kitchen.

It’s around 5pm and the bar is packed. It reminds me more of a shebeen in the black townships of South Africa or a yaat in the coloured townships of the Cape Flats – haphazardly put together illegal drinking establishments, always catering for decent food and drink, but lacking the décor which pretentious snobs pay more for. We grab a few beers from the bar and order the Seswaa, and then we sit down at a rickety table. I drink quickly because the humidity is stifling and the cold beer revitalises me. Surprisingly Refilwe is matching me gulp for gulp and soon I’m up at the bar again, returning with more beer and glasses of whiskey.

“Why is the alcohol so expensive?” I ask Refilwe.

“Our president is a teetotaller” she replies.

We both burst out laughing as the Seswaa arrives, carried by a barefoot teenage waiter. The dish itself is fairly simple: boiled and shredded beef complimented with pap and a sauce. I know she’s watching me as I eat and when I raise my head to drink some beer she’s grinning.

“Told you. Good, isn’ it?”

I don’t need to verbally answer because I dive back in relishing each bite and nodding. We continue drinking and as the night unfolds a DJ sets up and people start dancing in the open area outside. I take Refilwe’s hand and lead her to the dance area. She moves like something out of a music video, her hips at one with the rhythm, her soul at one with the music. I’m usually a terrible dancer but the alcohol and those seductive hips are guiding me. After a few tracks I leave her to her dancing and I excuse myself and head to the bathroom. When I return there are two guys dancing around her, trying to touch her. She’s clearly uncomfortable and attempting to deny their hands, but these assholes are aggressive. I walk in and hold her by the waist, yet the guys don’t back off, instead they glare at me whilst still grabbing at her. I channel Muhammed Ali and step to my side opening my body, and punching one of them square on the jaw. He drops and his friend drunkenly lunges in to me punching, but I’ve anticipated it and again I step away, leaving him stumbling to the floor, which I exacerbate by kicking him as he falls.

I take hold of Refilwe’s hand and we rush out. When we get to her car, I push her up against it and we kiss. We kiss hungrily, my hands exploring her body over her clothes. Finally she pulls away and looks at me with beautifully dilated pupils. For 10 seconds all we do is stare at each other whilst breathing rapidly.

“I’ll take you back to your hostel.”

I don’t want to go back to the backpackers but the day has exceeded expectations and I feel like it might lose its shine if I push it. She’s worth whatever wait there is.

“Sure. It’s getting late anyway.”

She drives me back to the backpackers and we laugh the whole way. She tells me that she didn’t know South African guys as fighters. I explain that I was raised on the Cape Flats of Cape Town and in that world if you’re not shown respect, it’s your duty to take it. She finds this hilarious and likens it to some Mafioso code. I laugh with her, although I know that in some aspects she’s right. When we get to the backpackers, I lean in and I kiss her, promising that I’ll call as soon as I awake. I sleep like a baby, dreaming of Waldorf schools and her hips.

I awake in a haze of dopamine, beautiful, beautiful dopamine, and the first thing I do is call her. She seems upset over the phone and tells me that it’s best if we try and see each other at the end of the week, as she has an important visitor staying over. I’m disappointed but I suppose there is not much I can do. I have absolutely no urge to leave Botswana and I decide to wait it out.

I spend the week trekking around Botswana by myself and when I return to Gaberone I call her. She wants to meet at the same coffee shop we met the first time, so I leave the backpackers early and set off on foot, this time arriving before she does. When she does arrive she looks downcast.

“What’s wrong Refilwe?”

"It’s a strange situation. I’m a little embarrassed to tell you.”

“It’s fine”, I say, grasping her hand from across the table. “You can tell me, maybe I can help.”

“I don’t think you can. My boyfriend is in town.”

Boyfriend.

An overweight middle aged man appears behind Refilwe and grabs her by the arm, making her relinquish her grip on my hand.

“So this is the fucking little co-conspirator! says the man. “You know what? You see this skinny bitch over here? She’s got HIV. You hear me! She’s got it because she fucks around like a little whore.”

My mind cannot piece together how this old man could be her boyfriend. He seems like he’s from a bygone era, one of ignorance and misunderstandings. I stand up and I stare him down.

“Leave her.”

“Fuck you, I own her. You little boy, go home to your country, a country where you still suck white dick. You see this, look around. This is Botswana! It’s a country built by strong black men.”

I bite down and steel myself, about to give out a deserved beating; in my head the ultra- violence is peaking. As I am about to forge forward with force, Refilwe gets in between us and pushes me back. I look into her eyes as she does this, and instead of pushing me away, I can see that what she really wants is to pull me towards her. But there is nothing that I can do in this moment. She has made her choice. I turn on my heels and walk away, trying my utmost to ignore the incessant curses being spat from the boyfriend’s mouth.

When I get back to the backpackers I hit the bar, gulping down beer after beer and scoring some weed from a bunch of cool Israeli travellers. It pains me that this girl could possibly cause so much hurt, and I all I want to do now is destroy it – self- medicating or not, the method is of no concern, the result is everything. I feel completely deflated and I decide to continue my African journey in the morning, chasing another border with promises of making new memories.

I get summoned to reception and I stumble over. It’s Refilwe on the phone. She wants me to come to her house and leaves the address. I slur something over the phone, which I sincerely hope sounded like “Yes, I’ll be there soon.” I’m too drunk to walk all the way so I ask the receptionist to call me a cab. Before the cab arrives I smoke another joint with the Israelis, to try and balance things out a bit.

Her house is surprisingly big; it’s an actual house when I was expecting a flat. I’m so surprised by the sheer size that I query the driver to make sure that he’s at the right place – he assures me that he is.

I knock on the door and she opens, and once more my brain is swimming in dopamine. The house is beautifully decorated with wealth. It’s the house of a rich man, and not the house of a student. We sit down on a large black leather couch and she pours us some wine.

“I’m sorry about earlier. It’s a very difficult situation,” she says.

“I don’t know what to say. I think it’s best if you speak.”

“Promise me that you won’t judge me.”

“I take my cue from the great Mandela, my dear. I don’t judge anyone.”

“This house is not my house. Here in Botswana we call it Small House, but as you can see it’s not small, but most are. I met Manu when I was eighteen, when I came to Gaberone for the first time to enrol at the university. I wasn’t attracted to him and I’m not in love with him. But he gave me this house to stay in, pays for my university and feeds my family well back home. He has a wife but he’s been living in England for the past year, setting up businesses. This thing with the AIDS, I don’t know what he’s talking about. I’ve lost a bit of weight, but every girl wants to be thinner! It doesn’t mean that I’m a whore or that I sleep around!” She starts to tear up. “I don’t expect you to understand. It’s just the way that things are.”

“What do you have to do for him?” I stupidly ask.

Her tears flow freely and it reminds me of Victoria Falls even though I’ve never been. I hold her and before long we are kissing. I undress her rapidly and she doesn’t resist. At first she just lies there like a beautiful mannequin or sex doll, but I’m tender with her and soon she’s immersed, and comes and comes and comes. As I doze off holding her, she tells me that those orgasmic three were her first ever. I’m proud in a way but sad at the same time.

Dawn breaks in a beautiful shade of orange, and we’re still entwined on the couch. I’m content in this moment and I don’t want it to ever end. She asks me if I want breakfast and I reply that I want her.

“He’s making us both go for tests tomorrow. Both our last tests were clear. I just need to sort that out, and then I’m leaving him.”

“I’ll wait for you. A connection like ours, so effortless and so natural, deserves a chance. It deserves even more than that. It deserves everything.”

Two days later and I’m sitting in the bar where I first tried the Seswaa. I’ve been nursing a beer but I’ve had no interest in drinking it and neither have I had any desire to want to smoke weed. It’s been a nervous last few days.

Finally she arrives and sits down opposite me. She takes my hand from across the table.

“I’m negative. He’s positive.”

Relief washes over me in an awesome way, but it’s only one battle won.

She continues, “Which shows that I’ve not been a whore, it’s been him whoring himself around in England. It’s funny how he got it in a supposedly together society when most people would think that you would pick it up here. Only shows you can get it anywhere.”

“I knew you would be fine. Where does that leave us?”

She speaks slowly, her voice tight and grim, “I’ve been thinking about that. I have a connection with you. Even though I’ve just met you, it’s definitely there. You live in a world with no limits and you make me feel like I can do anything too.” Her gaze drops to the table and so do my spirits.n“But at the moment I cannot leave him. We spoke about it and he’s going to go on ARV’s and he’s still going to support me. I don’t know if you understand, but my family. My family is important.”

I stare into her eyes and I curse the cards that life has dealt her. I curse the rigged deck which women are forced to play with. I just stare, I don’t say anything. A solitary tear breaks the trance, so I stand up, kiss her forehead and walk away. Like Lot in the Bible I don’t look back, for looking back will destroy me.

As my bus drives out of Gaberone I try and tell myself that I’ll regain the traveler’s high as soon as I reach a new country, as soon as I cross another border. My gaze drifts to the window and I see a stack of small white houses lined up on the side of the road. I see them and I weep.

I weep for the first time in years.

END

World Cup 2010

It’s been described as the pinnacle of African achievement. Cape Town is hot with World Cup 2010 fever, yet my experience has mostly been confined to our little lounge, staring at a tiny black box.

My father has been talking up this event for months. He diligently saved ten rand each week of his paltry labourers wage in some deluded hope that he might snag a ticket. When reality finally scored its goal, like it always does, the years’ worth of savings were drowned in the shebeen around the corner, like he always does.  

I on the other hand, actually made the effort to take the train and the two minibus taxis required to travel from the dour Cape Flats to vibrant Green Point, to see the new stadium, as well as to sample what all the fuss was really about. The tourists were friendly, but they stank of whiskey and seemed weighted by their pockets, as if the African soil were rooting them to the spot where all humankind originated from. My boyfriend and I had fifty rand to spend and although we drank slowly, when our empty 500ml beer glasses were whisked away by the barman we resigned ourselves to the long trek back home. As the train stuttered along I remember thinking that the World Cup might be in South Africa, but it’s all an illusion because real, flesh and blood South Africans will never truly be a part of this World Cup.

Tonight South Africa is playing France. My father is predictably at the shebeen.  My boyfriend, Jared, has just been paid from his new job at the docks and because of this he is being hounded by two of his friends, Derick and Shafiek. Jared has bought some crystal and we’ve been blissfully hitting the Lolly for the past hour or so.

“I spoke to that ou that says he’s a Staggie the other day,” says Shafiek.

“That guy isn’t a Staggie! He’s a fucking bergie!” shouts Jared, laughing.

“He looks like them, man!  You can clearly see that they’re family. But get this, he says that his brother, you remember that whole thing with his brother, right?”

We all nod. How could we possibly forget the night when the biggest drug dealer in South Africa was shot and set alight by a group of crazy, religious vigilantes? The image of his burning, bloodied body was all over the TV news and in the papers. It’s an image that will forever be seared in the memory of every Capetonian.

“He told me that before that shit went down his brother buried a stash of drugs and cash. And I know where that place is. He told me when we were smoking some crystal. He told me in detail where he thinks it is. I was supposed to help him dig this weekend but I say fuck him, why don’t we go find it?”

It doesn’t take much to send a bunch of crystal meth addicts out on a mission, especially when that mission involves cash and drugs.

The boys dig at Shafiek’s designated spot and I light a cigarette, doubtful that they will unearth anything. The night feels like it’s riding on a wave of smoke, as we continually hit the Lolly and Shafiek’sspot gets wider and wider.

After two, three, or four hours of digging, it looks like they’ve dug up most of the park. Just as I am about to say I’m leaving, Jared’s shovel hits something. He pulls out a black suitcase from the earth. We all congregate around our treasure as Jared opens the briefcase: neatly packed inside are two see through plastic bags. One contains Rands; the other a white powder. Shafiek and Derick hug each other ecstatically and howl to the moon. Jared kisses me in a way that makes my knees tremble.

We get back to my house and my father is still at the shebeen. Someone will probably come knocking soon, telling me that I have to fetch him. The boys dip their fingers in the plastic bag with the white powder - heroin. Jared disappears to the kitchen and returns with aluminium foil while I count the money.  They chase the dragon and as hit follows hit, their voices quieten and they vanish into their lucid dreams.

I have finished counting: half a million rand and change. Enough to actually enjoy the World Cup. Enough to drink whiskey and look weighted down by my pockets. Enough to see other things and not this godforsaken Cape Flats every day. Enough to ignore an alcoholic father who thinks of beer before putting food on the table. Enough to dump a boyfriend who lives for getting high and sees no issue with his friends trying to flirt with his girlfriend in front of him.

Enough to leave.

I hit the last of the crystal in the Lolly and I pack my bags. Brazil 2014, Russia 2018, I'm on my way.

END