The Boy Next Door (13 page)

“McKeurten.”

“Shit, that’s some rough goffle school. So I guess you
are
a goffle. You see a McKeurten kid, you cross the road, whitey or not:
ek sê that, ek sê this, I’ll tune you.
… So, you like it?”

“No, not really.”

I don’t tell him how Mummy had to pretend to be the house girl when she would come to pick me up from school; otherwise, they
would have kicked me out because Mummy was too black and the headmistress was always going on about standards.

“Shit, not another one?”

“It’s the Fifth Brigade, look at their…”

“Yah, yah, I’ve got eyes, haven’t I? What the fuck do they want now? Check the look on this one now. Chill.”

I sit quietly, not moving, wishing that I was at the back, like a good house girl. I do not look up at the soldier who has
thrust his face in Ian’s window, filling the car with smoke.

The cigarette dangles from his lips, and he speaks through it.

I look down at my lap and concentrate on nothing but Ian’s voice. “Identity, sure, look. No, I’ve got my passport. She’s my
sister, half sister. No, I’m dropping her off in Gwanda. Yes, yes, I have my passport. Me, South Africa. But I have to go
today. How can the road be closed… okay. Thank you. Thank you.”

“Nothing like rands to open up a road, heh? Good thing I hid the rest of it in my shoe. I thought that chick was laying it
on thick, but shit, those guys look like they could do anything. And what’s with the red berets? Their heads must be frying
under there.”

He drives on for a bit, whistling.

“How come you’ve got your passport?”

He gives me a look, waiting.

“Jeez, man, you’re not thinking of crossing the border? Are you penga? As soon as we get to Gwanda, you’re getting off.”

He looks at me again, waiting.

“Lindiwe, for your information, there is apartheid in South Africa. What the heck do you think you’ll do there, if they’ll
even let you through, man? God, you’re dwaas.”

“I can go there; there’s no law.”

“Lindiwe, be reasonable; there’s no ways you’re going, not a chance.”

He shakes his head, looks at me again. “Open the compartment, yah, get a cassette out, the one with the black chick.

“Sweet, yah? Ella Fitzgerald. American. No ways a white chick could sound like that… what the fricking heck was… shit… we’ve
blown a tire… hold on…”

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Lucky I wasn’t belting it, otherwise we’d be roadkill.”

We get out of the car.

“The last thing I feel like doing is changing a fricking tire. Shit, I could use a Castle.”

The slamming of the boot makes me jump.

And then he is hitting the lid with his fists. “Shit. Shit. No spare tire. I’ve got no spare tire. Shit!”

I watch him kick the ground with his feet until finally he sits down on a boulder, his head in his hands, tired out.

I stand for a moment in the heat, and then I go to him.

“I reckon it’s thirty, thirty-five K’s to Gwanda,” he says, shading his eyes. “We can walk it.”

“It’s hot.”

“Yah, it’s hot, any suggestions?”

“We could wait for a lift.”

“Do you
see
anything moving on this road? Remember, it’s
closed
and I don’t want to be picked up by no gondie, no red beret, Fifth Brigade Commie gondies. And no fricking water; where the
hell did we think we were jolling to, shit. Come, let’s get a move on.”

But he doesn’t move. He just sits there. The sun is right on him. He doesn’t care.

“Ten thirty, and it’s already baking bricks.”

He still doesn’t move.

I go to the car. The metal burns my hand. I take out my bag, and after I think about it, his too. I think some more and push
the cassette out; I open the compartment and take everything out; I find a Meikles plastic bag and I put everything in there.
I walk past him.

I walk on the side of the road. I look up all the way along the road and I think how long and glittery it is.

I walk and I think of Mummy and Daddy.

Rosanna and the baby.

Maphosa and Mphiri.

And Bridgette.

I walk and I don’t hear him behind me, but I don’t turn around. The bags are heavy, but I don’t put them down. I just walk
and think.

I think of him.

Ian.

I say “Ian” softly.

I think of him sitting on the boulder by the edge of the road.

Him in the car, driving.

Him chewing biltong.

I think of him, his new blue shirt, the buttons all done up wrong.

I think of his hair, his eyes, his ears, his nose, his mouth.

I think of him, my brother.

My half brother.

And I just keep on walking.

“You better slow down or you’ll be kwapulad by the heat in no time.”

“Finished sulking?”

“Don’t get smart-alecky with me girl.”

I watch him take the bags off me.

“Thanks,” he says.

“No worries,” I say.

And he laughs.

We’ve been walking for so long when I see Bridgette standing there, holding a calabash in her hands. She tilts the calabash
forwards and water spills to the ground.

Even though I know it’s not real, that it’s a mirage, I say, “Bridgette, don’t. Don’t waste it,” and I begin to walk faster
towards her, towards the water before it all spills to the ground.

“Hey, stop running!”

Even though I know Bridgette is not real, the water is not real, I keep thinking, please, please, don’t waste it, and I can
hear myself panting, running.

“Hey, what’s up with you? Stop running.”

I’m on the ground now, the hot burning ground.

“We need to get out of the sun, look for cover.”

And he heads off into the bush.

“No, Ian, no. Ian! I’m not going in there. Please, stop.”

“Just for a while, we’re not going in deep. There, there’s a tree, not much shade, better than nothing.”

“They’re going to find us, in the bush, in here. I’m not going…”

“Listen, we need to rest. Just sit down. Shit, it’s hot.”

He clears a space with his foot, puts my bag on it. “Sit. Here, have some of this.”

From his pocket he takes out a slab of chocolate, a naajitshe. I watch him break the chocolate, peel the naajitshe. I take
one bit of naajitshe, suck out the juice. He gives me another one.

“We’ll save the rest,” he says.

“You should have something.”

“I’m okay.”

He sits down on his own bag, and he shakes his head.

“Man, to think I was a fricking Boy Scout; survival guide in the bush went through one ear, came out the other.”

He twists his head.

“Do you smell that? Like burnt. The grass is so dry, must be mahobo fires.”

“We can drink water from aloes.”

“Yah, that’s right; plenty of that stuff over at Fort Victoria, sorry, Masvingo by the Zimbabwe Ruins.”

“Great Zimbabwe.”

“Don’t start again, it’s too fricking hot. They’re ruins, aren’t they? You can’t change history.”

“Whites said they were the work of Europeans, Africans couldn’t build something like that; it’s only recently that archaeologists
have—”

“Jeez man, okay, okay, Great Zimbabwe Fricking Ruins, happy now? Shit, the smell. It’s coming from that end.”

“Where’re you going?”

“Just stay there. I want to check out this smell.”

“People get lost in the bush. They start walking in circles. They lose their bearings.”

“Yah, yah, now you’re a fricking scout. I’m not going far. There’s a track here.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“There must be a kraal round here; might be able to get some water. No fences here, not commercial farming area. TTLs, communal
lands. Just gon… , Affs.”

“We’re going too far. We can’t see the ro—”

“Shit man, look at this.”

They’re burnt.

The huts, some of them still smoldering.

And the smell is there, everywhere.

It goes right inside me.

The smell I did not wake up to a long time ago.

The smell, he knows.

I look over to Ian. He is so still. His legs wide apart, his hands on his side, his fists clenched. Then I see his teeth chewing
inside his cheek.

I look at the old man, bent, picking.

I look at Ian who is watching the old man.

“Mudala,” he says, “what has happened here?”

The old man does not turn around. He continues picking through the ash, settling the bones to one side.

Ian goes right up to him, gets down on his haunches.

“Mudala,” he says, “what has happened?”

The old man stops and looks at Ian.

He does not seem surprised to see a white man suddenly there.

Ian puts his hand on the old man’s shoulder.

“I will help you, mudala,” he says.

And I watch him pick through the ash.

His hands move gently, quickly, sorting.

And then he turns to me, and I wonder if he knows what I am thinking—if he thinks I believe he is like the men with the red
berets, the men who have come here and done this.

When they are finished, the old man looks around; Ian takes the Meikles bag, empties it, and gives it to the old man, who
puts the bones, one by one, inside.

I watch him get up.

He says to Ian, to me, to the bush, the bones, his children, “We have suffered this day,” and then he walks away into the
bush, deep, deep into the bush.

Ian turns to me.

He wipes his face with his hands.

He looks down at his hands, then up at me.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

We stand there in the bush.

The two of us, listening, waiting.

“I woke up,” he says, “and she was burning.”

He looks right at me, through me.

“I let her burn.”

That’s all he says.

*    *    *

“At least they won’t get any ideas that we’ve been sticking our noses where they’re not wanted.”

We’ve walked back to the car. Thirst burns my throat.

“Those goons are probably coming back to clean up. Best they find us here. Hopefully, it’s a lift that turns up first. Shit,
I could use a drink and a shower.”

The lift turns up. A white pickup with zebra markings. Zimba Wildlife Lodges. In the driver’s seat a white man and, by his
side, a black Alsatian.

“Hi, what’s up?” the man asks, opening the door. The dog starts barking and scrambling to get out. I move closer to Ian. The
man says, “Quiet, boy,” and pushes the dog back on the passenger seat.

“Burst tire, no spare,” says Ian.

“Can give you a lift till the lodge. Finally got through the roadblock, a waste of a day and a half. I wish they would do
whatever they’re doing and move on. We can tow your car, get it fixed up tomorrow by our boys. Who’s she?”

“She’s with me.”

“She’ll have to hop in the back.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Jeez man, I’m knackered. You’re still up? The man talked and talked. Acute verbal diarrhea, that’s for sure. Didn’t tell
him about that shit in the bush, kept my answers short, to the point. Lindiwe? What, are you crying? Lindiwe, don’t… You’re
shivering, what… Lindiwe, Lindiwe, don’t…”

In the morning I wake up first.

I pick up my clothes which are scattered on the floor.

I stand still in the bathroom.

I look in the mirror and it is me.

I wash my face.

I get dressed.

When I come out, he is gone.

The car is fixed.

He is going on, setting off just now, off to Beitbridge.

Without me.

I stand by the car.

Waiting.

“So, Lindiwe,” he says, “you heard the guy, the road’s all clear now; they’ve moved on, you’ll be all right.”

He doesn’t even look at me.

“I’ll write, send you some cool postcards.”

He is already so far away.

“Lindiwe,” he says, and then he turns away.

I wait for the car to stop somewhere near, far.

I wait for the car to turn around, to come back to me, for me.

I wait for him to get out of the car.

To stand just right here.

But the car moves on and on until it is nowhere, gone.

*    *    *

On the bus I think of his hair, his eyes, his ears, his nose, his arms, his hands.

I think of my face in his hands.

My head pressed tight against him.

I think of never seeing him again.

So you’re at varsity now, always thought you were a smart aleck. Good thing I caught you before you took off. Sociology, Social
Anthr—what the… I see you’re going to be one of those fundies, make lots of dosh sorting out Third World Issues. Me, you know,
I’m just hanging. I miss the shit out of Zimbo, would you believe.

So since you’re becoming a fundie and all, no more letters to us numbskulls, heh? No worries. Heard there’s rioting and shit
at the varsity, hope you’re steering clear of it.

Lindiwe,

At last I get something. So you got kwapulad. Well, not to be harsh, I hope you learnt your lesson. Just concentrate on being
a fundie and leave the politics well alone.

Lindiwe,

Thanks for the philosophizing. I got caught up in a demo downtown, some fricking whities sporting free mandela, anc T-shirts.
Lots of heavy shit happening in Soweto and in the hostels.

So now you’re hanging around Frenchies and Italians; hope you don’t get Je taimed, and remember, the Frenchies, they eat frogs.
Talking about Italians, you know that they got buried alive in the Kariba wall; the Tongas called their spirit to tshaya them
good for driving them out of the land and the dam flooded and the workers got caught. Nice, heh?

I’m a Domestic Engineer. Would you believe, I’m fixing fricking fridges.

Lindiwe,

I thought you were trying to pull a fast one. So, you’re going to the Tongas to do your, what do you call it, research… the
effect of forced migration on the intra… and you’re saying I gave you the idea, yebo mama. Just wear a hat, a good thick bush
hat, so that your brains don’t get scrambled. And don’t upset those Tongas; they might be thick but they have one powerful
sekuru up there.