Prologue

She could not see. As it was no one could be expected to see - the blue Mazda, with its two
occupants, was parked by a seedy curb away from the street lamps – and in all fairness there
existed no pressing need to. It was of no consequence to her at the time, the seeing or the not
seeing, and it remained of no consequence until the end of the story, that is, for Regina, the
one who suffered the sudden and random encounter with the car near her house in Brixton.
She was walking from a risky delivery (there were robbers abound), and a fruity scent
lingered on her fingers (she sold cheap perfumes). It was almost midnight but she stopped a
moment, looking.

She thought she recognized the gentleman behind the wheel - she’d seen him before. But then
again she could not be sure. A woman sat in the passenger seat, more visible than the man,
but Regina’s mind did not register her. The street was deserted except for her and these
individuals. Her mind churned. From Regina’s angle and distance – a good ten meters or so –
the man and woman were only outlines colored in sloppily by the light of the car in which
they sat, huddled, conversing animatedly; as it was, she repeated to herself, no one could be
expected to see - it wasn’t just her poor eyesight.

Ever since an impromptu appointment to the optician booked out of sheer curiosity (What
was twenty-twenty?) and nothing else, her vision had begun deceiving her. There, squinting
at the hoisted chart of gradually shrinking letters and numbers, she came to understand that
she did not see as well as she thought and at some point in her life – she did not know exactly
when – she had arrived at the dubious conclusion that wearing spectacles was an act of
complicity to a disability. A silly notion, she was aware, but she held it nonetheless. So
glasses were out of the question. The diagnosis, however, proved enough for her eyes to start
playing nasty tricks. In her bedroom at night, hung jackets and upholstery took on forms of
their own, morphed, and became marionettes. After Jabulani perished in that skydiving
catastrophe it became worse, for her bedroom was now hers alone.
Regina was frustrated: the strain of trying to place a face was alike to an itch in a hard-to-
reach place, like the dull ache of an un-realized orgasm; it was like a toothpick attempting to
locate a piece of meat stuck between the teeth. The tongue would venture first, establish
coordinates, but the damn toothpick. No matter, she told herself, shrugging. It would come to
her later.

Her mind however, refused to listen. She moved along towards home, still trying to
remember. She would have continued trying, only when she turned the last corner she
encountered the unthinkable. There was a car, a Rolls Royce this time – parked by her gate. A
most unusual thing, she thought, how these cars were springing up on her like this, in rapid
succession, in the middle of the night. She was bewildered.

Brixton is a neighborhood close to the heart of the city of Johannesburg. Even with that
proximity the lives of these two locales cannot be more different. Where the central business
district brims with people – businessmen who drive impressive vehicles, crooks, criminal
masterminds, street vagrants whose only mode of transport is cracked feet, hawkers, hustlers,
runners, the whole spectrum of human wealth on exhibit over many hectares of the
megalopolis – Brixton for the most part is a ghost town; the few instances when its streets are
indeed populated there is not much variety to be observed. The suburb is invariably occupied
by poor people, working class. They drive gusheshes, old Mazda 323s boasting archaic
designs and robust engines and on Fridays they bring out garden chairs and play amapiano
loudly from the car stereos and drink cheap beer. Occasionally a trolley will fly past, carrying
filthy but unbothered boys and mounds of plastic refuse in a giant saga. Brixton, with its
earth-caked roads, its eclectic graffiti, its narrow pavements where you can only walk in
single file with an acquaintance and its many houses-turned-student-accommodations that
bear unimaginative names, and its old, tiny, clean houses. Too clean, as if the inhabitants
were trying to hide some great flaw, or deficiency.

All this raced through Regina’s mind as she mulled over the luxury car. This kind of vehicle
had no business being in this location, at her house, around this time. The 323, sure, but this
make – practically impossible hereabouts. It drew attention and that was the last thing you
wanted. The people around here would deal with you one time. By people she meant
Coloreds, and a little introspection made her embarrassed. Maybe it was one of her new
tenant’s friends, that young man, the quiet alien with the surreptitious glances and quick
answers and unkempt beard. By now she was at her gate, scrutinizing the vehicle up close,
smelling it. Running her finger seductively along its contours. Musing over the five percent
tint. She almost forgot it was her house, the way she opened the gate cautiously and peered
only a head in.

Under moonlight her yard was uninteresting; it was a stretch of lawn and nothing else - you
couldn’t see the flowers. She tried the door to the main house. It was still locked. The lights
were off and she silenced her breath to listen for sounds. Nothing. Her heart was already
racing by the time she arrived at the corner of the house, stopping to poke part of her head
out.

Three rooms occupied the rear of the main house, and a man was there. He was knocking
impatiently at the farthest door from the house. Maybe her initial assumption had been
correct. He knocked again. Unanswered, he put his ear to the door and reached for the handle,
only to discover that the handle had broken off. A metallic stub remained. The man went on
his toes and tried to peep through the curtains.

“Excuse,” said Regina, appearing with the light-footedness of a wild cat. Her arms were
folded, eyes staring down the intruder.

The short man jumped and veered. On seeing the woman, he placed a palm to his chest and
took a deep, theatrical breath.

“Let me say hello,” he said. He was Indian, and sounded like a caricature of one.

“If you’re looking for him then you can come back tomorrow, please. Maybe he will be back.
We’ve been missing our things at this house, so you can understand why I am alarmed seeing
a strange man at the back of the house, near the wash line where we hang our laundry.”

“Sorry sorry, mama. I must offer my apologies,” the man said, taking off his sunglasses and
hanging his head. He offered a shy smile.

He had small eyes set deep in his skull. Was fat. He gave off the impression of a weasel or a
raccoon, some type of conniving little mammal. Regina could not put a finger on it, but there
was something ominous about the Indian. Something dangerous. It seemed he was being nice
not because that was his nature, but because he recognized the usefulness of being nice.
Regina was frightened of people like that, people who wore behaviors as simply as one put
on socks and who displayed complete composure while they performed these affectations.
There was something all at once dislikeable about this Naidoo.

He trudged towards and out of the gate, Regina behind to see him off. His suit was bespoke
and an expensive scent trailed him which Regina tried and failed to discern. The colognes she
sold in Small Street didn’t have this kind of fragrance: subtle, woody, the work of a master
perfumer, the kind that did not render one light-headed when inhaled for too long.

Clouds drifted a murky hue of blue against the eternal canvas of night sky. A full moon shone
with a strange lucent light. The air was tranquil – it was what they call a perfect night. The
man, now outside 38 Governor Street Brixton, leaned against his Rolls Royce. A window
rolled down, revealing a stiff man behind the wheel, t-shirt strained across his imposing
physique. Regina flushed – so, all the while she was fawning over the vehicle, someone was
in it?

Before he embarked, the Indian straightened his tie, put on his glasses, and told Regina:

“Please. Here are my last words. When he returns, tell him Naidoo was here. I may return
tomorrow, like you suggested. Thank you.”

Regina promised to relay the message. She stood on the road, arms akimbo, looking at the
slick lights of the car as they became embers and she a photographer developing, stared as the
car receded before disappearing around corner Governor and Third Street.

Understanding at B.P.S
Brixton Police Station. What interesting fact can one say about this place? It is a struggle to
come up with such a thing. It is two rooms, one administrative and the other containing cells.
The station lies along High Street, one section of a long tumultuous strip of tarmac that, under
different monikers, snakes through some of the most popular suburbs and locations of
Johannesburg -Braamfontein. Rooderport, and many others. It’s a blue structure in line with
the colors of the S.A.P.S. There is a car park there.

At this moment, in one of the cells, was a man of poor hygiene. He sat on a thin bench. His
hair was a bird’s nest: trinkets of some metal twinkled, twigs protruded, pieces of newspaper
and tissue matted. He was shirtless. His pants were snug around his ankles as he fondled his
privates. He was attentive caressing the tip, seeing something on the ceiling. Interspersed
with these philosophic stares onto the roof were other stares, these ones long and languorous,
directed at the three other inmates with whom he shared the confined space.

Cowering on a similar bench opposite him was a black boy with a fresh fade. He’d been
drunk driving. He was dressed smartly in an outfit you would expect an adolescent to wear on
a casual first date. Converses. Spruced up summer shirt, couple of buttons undone to indicate
a laissez-faire attitude. Distressed denim jacket. Chinos. He was a solemn bundle on the edge
of the bench, avoiding eye contact. Once in a while, curiosity lured him to peak glances at the
man touching himself.

Besides the black boy was a thin Afrikaner man. Old. He hadn’t shared what he was in for.
But he had been the most talkative out of the four. Once, in the middle of a silence, he had
looked around to invoke attention, cleared his throat, turned around. He peeled off his t-shirt;
he was showing them his back.

“You see this,” he had said, finger pointing to a tattoo. It was a deeply graphic picture of a
knife, running from his nape to the tip of his leather belt. “I cannot tell you what horrors one
has to commit to earn this. It is a mark of death recognized only by elements of the
underworld. You understand?”

Once he’d risen to take a leak. Though the toilet faced away from the others, he had still
threatened, head turned:

“Look at my ass, I’ll stab you.”

In spite of his threats, the Afrikaner had sobered down when the madman had suddenly stood,
released the belt around his waist and let the tattered suit-pants fall, belthead clanging on the
linoleum.

Empty words. The son of a bitch...

Tonde sat directly beside the madman. His lunacy had lost its luster of horror some time ago.
Presently Tonde was thinking. Firstly, about the circumstances leading to his arrest. About
James, about the package – the package was front and center, ramming against his head –,
about Tanya who would be wondering where he was right now. He craved a smoke, but that
was low on the list.

He was also freezing. A blue Lacoste shirt did nothing to keep out the rude cold in the station.
It hung limply from his shoulders, allowing an ice breeze to explore his skin through the
space between his body and the cloth of shirt. In the event that he caught flue, solace lay in
that the stench of old urine which drifted in the air would no longer harass him. While he
thought, he massaged the red circles welting around his wrists.

Around ten pm, two officers had burst into the station dragging Tonde between them. The
handcuffs were digging into his flesh, and he’d imagined the damage they were inflicting on
the skin of his wrists. The officers led Tonde to the booking desk. The one on his left,
drooping round face and lazy eyes, patted Tonde down and took everything from his pockets,
throwing the objects one by one on top of the desk. Behind the desk, a female officer, no-
nonsense face, ugly, reached over to a stack of papers and pulled a blue form. She began
scribbling on the paper, repeating the names of the objects on the desk to herself before
dropping them carefully into a sealable plastic container:

“One knife medium size. A lighter. Phone – Samsung Galaxy S5. OCB Rolling Papers. Ten
grams marijuana, estimate.”

Another officer, a lady, pretty in the way youth is, had appeared just then from a door
carrying a bucket of KFC, two litres of Coke and a loaf of Sasko.

“Identification?” No-nonsense had looked up at Tonde.

Tonde had shrugged, but his mind was working furiously. The situation was complicated
enough as it was, but it grew more complicated each second he lay here doing nothing.
Questions were being asked this very moment, somewhere, his name flying out of the lips of
unsavoury characters. He had to be released as soon as possible and begin damage control – it
was imperative.

No-nonsense scowled. After comments which can be summed up in ‘these bloody foreigners’
he had been forgotten as the four policemen on night duty leapt at the food and began
bickering about who got what piece, that drumstick, that breast. The breast had the most
meat, Lazy-face concurred, reaching for a white plastic cup and pouring himself Coke.

He’d observed the four of them, how their mouths chewed, how their eyes sped about, Sonic-
like, observed how their fingers, like tentacles, reached out for the thickly-coated chicken.
There was something in the way these officers operated which made Tonde hatch a plan in
that moment. It came to him complete and final. He would pick out the moment. Wait.

And wait he did. Like the twentieth-century trains from back home, time moved
excruciatingly slow. Within the first hour, the black boy had drifted off to a peaceful sleep
induced by the comfort which comes after tears. In the second hour the Afrikaner was gone.
One minute he had been mumbling to himself, pulling at his trousers which were maybe
chafing him, eyes wide and alert; the next, his head was hung back, neck bent in an
uncomfortable position, mouth wide, as if an invisible noose had just been through strangling
him. As for the madman. The madman was a tough customer. For a long while, he was
vigorous, hard at it, grunting, the rhythm of his hand a soliloquy. But by and by, the rhythm
had dropped to a lower tempo, the wrist more slacked, the fingers looser around his penis.
Then finally the fingers had let go. They had dropped, seeped of life.

It was around three am. It was deathly quiet save for the footsteps of a policeman which
sounded at regular intervals. Outside, cars drove past. The glow of their headlights crept into
the cell, painting Tonde a ghost, an object simultaneously there and not there. He was the
only one awake. The others were gone. He was waiting.

After a few minutes, the footsteps started. They became louder as the officer approached,
echoing through the cell like sky falling, like blunt metal against a tuning fork. It was Lazy-
face. But this came as no surprise to Tonde. He had observed the rotation and waited for the
man. The one most likely to sway the others if need be. His best bet.

Lazy-face’s eyes were red from lack of sleep. He was swinging a baton around, shirt of police
uniform untucked. Nose upturned at the smell. Looking away. Sauntering as a king might
along the halls of a great castle.

“My friend” Tonde said.

The officer swung to face him. It was as if he had just become aware that he was not alone.
He had an inquisitive frown. Leisurely he approached the man behind bars.

“My friend,” Tonde repeated. “You look like a man who understands things.”

“That is true.” the officer agreed.

Tonde clutched the bars, squeezing from them the artistry he required. He pressed his face
against the bars and eyes beginning to smart, spoke:

“I am also a man like that. An understanding man. A good man. I have a wife and children
back home. I’m only trying to make a living here. That is all. This is the worst kind of
tragedy that can happen to me. Getting arrested. No papers.” He shook his head, ventured.

“It was only a minor violation—“

“My man, if you call that minor—“

“Yes, yes—“

“Not to speak of your friend—“

“That one has problems beyond me. My good man--” Tonde paused, choking.

He was staring into the distance, staring at his salvation, and at some point during the charade
he was sucked in. Memories of a past existence swarmed him. He remembered the only other
instance when he had ‘done time’. The atrocious smells, the loss of dignity, the unfairness of
it all. A once upon a time ago…
He could no longer tell if he was acting.

He continued, nonetheless, stringing together words:

“The world is a simple place. It speaks a simple language. A man wants something. Another
man has that which the first man wants. They do what is done to help each other.”

“Are you trying to bribe me, kwerekwere?”

“Such an unnecessary word.”

“Do not speak like a politician.”

Tonde looked back into the cell. The others were fast asleep. He whispered:

“This is a situation in which no one can get hurt. There has been no murder. No robbery. No
car accident. We must just come to a simple understanding. Like you said before, you are an
understanding man.”

The officer put a hand to his chin.

He is a fish, Tonde thought.

The bait, a flavourless imposter, was taking on qualities of the real, writhing, thing. The
sinker bobbed expectantly.

After a moment of deliberation, the officer said finally:

“And then?”

A few moments and a few key-clangs later, Tonde was standing in the parking lot of the
Brixton Police Station. Lazy-face stood looking on apprehensively as Tonde threw away the
floor mat on the passenger seat and unscrewed the base of the Volkswagen. After some
laborious pulling and incessant groaning, some scraping of metal, Tonde pulled out what it
was he had been working at. It was a Shoprite shopping bag. Tonde unwrapped the plastic. It
ruffled in the biting wind.
Inside the shopping bag were wads of one hundred rand notes tied together with rubber band.
There were several of them.

Lazy-face whistled.

“I’ll be back,” he said.

Tonde saw him enter the station and moments later he returned with the three other officers.
Once their eyes settled on the bag of money no convincing was necessary. There in the
beckoning morning they became judge, jury, and executioner: Minor infractions was all
Tonde was guilty of. After all, the purpose of incarceration was rehabilitation; who could
possibly claim that the man before them was not rehabilitated? This was an honest family
man caught regrettably on the wrong side of the law. He was as sorry as sorry could be. He
deserved their understanding. Back in the office they returned Tonde’s belongings to him.
Around the booking desk they wet thumbs, leafed through the Mandelas.
 2
Frost in Kingston

There is a park in Brixton called Kingston Frost which sits in the same line with the chic
coffee place and restaurant, Breezeblock. Next to Breezeblock is a tennis court where not
much tennis is played; on chosen days seniors from the neighborhood congregate there and
are taught how to ride bicycles courtesy of restaurant management. There is no stigma. After
some basic instruction, you see the old people wobbling out of the tennis court and taking to
the road, heads buried in oversize helmets, a tint of childhood about the whole affair. This
side of Brixton containing clean streets lined with wide foreign trees, one or two themed
restaurants, and moderately-sized houses in whose garages is parked shiny, middle-range
family cars - the economic Corolla; a Hyundai; the affordable Mercedes - can be called its
‘nice side.’

Kingston Frost Park takes up a great slanted chunk of the suburb, consuming the whole
decline of a kopje as well as the whole length of a block. On one end of the park is a
children’s playground surrounded by a fence. Benches are strewn about the multi-tiered
terrain. Huge trees provide shade during the hotter days. Little footpaths bounded by igneous
rock run across the park, up and down it, linked craftily by steep stone stairways. Standing on
one of the igneous rocks in the middle tier of the park one stares out to Auckland Park,
picturesque from this vantage point. Further ahead, a large swath of the great city spreads -
houses, skyscrapers, radio towers, office buildings - melding into faraway mountains of blue.

Tonderai looked out from this point. The sun was about to come up, dragging with it the
intrigue of a new day. He was thinking. But his hands were busy. Crumbs of marijuana fell
from a brown paper. Even though he was filled with an emotion that resembled peace, he
knew the feeling was flimsy and temporary; something inside him was warning of trying
times ahead. Call it a stroke of clairvoyance. He had no reason to worry, not definitely, but
still he felt tribulation looming. Dawn broke. Mist lifted from the park like a hex.

Tonderai licked and spat, his face placid. He was a fella who rarely smiled, talked calmly as
if soothing a wounded dog. He had a brooding glare always in his eyes like he was always
thinking, which he was. People regularly accused him of being sad even when he was in the
highest spirits. Kept a healthy beard and a mini-afro. Muscular though not bulky. Tall. He
also had something of the wild animal about him, a feral appeal which women were wont to
point out.

Strangers labelled him impassive, but then, even those who had known him well, before
everything had happened, would say the same thing. James said the same thing. No one from
back home would recognize him now. He was a changed man, coarsened against the abrasive
surface of life which was its indifference. Things – things had happened to this man.

While he raised a flame to the joint, he thought:

Ugly as death, that old policewoman. My God.

He inhaled. He looked at the view. Looked at the colors of the park, the benches and tables.
His mind began to venture. The smoke twirled in front of him. It mixed with mist, trailing off
somewhere…

Into the branches of the rhododendron nestled against the park bench. There’s mist
everywhere. Thick jerseys cradle them. Droplets condense onto blades of grass, dampening
his jeans. She, lighter and redder under the thrashing cold. Him, hands in her jacket pockets.
Scent of StaySoft. Coconut of a hair product. Her legs wrapped around him, sitting on that
filthy table top. Bubble-gum wrappers in the crevices. Cigarette stubs. Burnt matches.
Pressed together. There’s frost in Kingston Park. There’s golden leaves over the cement. Her
lips are like some sweet berry. In her pockets is a tube of lip-gloss.

“How did we get here from Roe v Wade?” she says, breathless.

“It was a crafty segue. Hey. No one’s around.”

“Promise you’ll be quick?” she whispers. Dainty fingers on his fly already.

“Yes.”

“I’ll sneak you into the Law Clinic and we’ll fuck on the Constitution.”

Hands underneath her t-shirt. A Clockwork Orange….

“Excuse me?”

He half-expected to see Tanya, the object of his reverie and most of his mental wanderings,
but there was no dark-skinned African girl before him. It was a white lady who smelled
septic, thoroughly washed. She had on a jogging attire, FitBit on her wrist, a pair of flashy
Skechers on feet. An affluent ‘mature’ look.

“Yes?”

“Is it you with the white Volkswagen up top?”

“Yeah?”

“I think you left your headlights on by mistake. I wiped the mist off the window and saw no
one in the car. Figured the owner was down here somewhere.”

“Thank you.”

“No worries.”

The woman smiled. She jogged on down a footpath, throwing long strides with reckless
abandon. Tonde thought:

White people. No wonder Ted Bundy went on for so long.

It was around six am when the Volkswagen weaved its way through the scenery of a weekday
morning in Brixton: people going to work. Housewives and maids sweeping verandas.
Schoolchildren in prim uniforms skipping to school, book bags jiggling as they played tag on
the road. The dog-walker, infrequent, turning a corner, restraining by the leash an excited
pup. Foreign trees throwing spots of dark on the road. Nonchalant varsity students mostly
Witwatersrand and UJ, dressed in pajamas and oversize hoodies and Crocs, emerging from
behind the barbed-wired walls of their boarding houses, dangling keys and rand notes,
towards the bodega; There, under the watchful eye of a grumpy Pakistani, a truck delivering
loaves of Albany. A street sweeper emptying a kabob of papers and plastics into one of the
bins labeled – in an attempt at a catchphrase by perhaps some campaign – Pikitup.

The Volkswagen stopped its groaning before a brown-brick house. Tonde got out of the car
and stood for a moment. The House with the Gate with the Red Spires – the name was so
obviously a product of James’ longwinded and pedantic nature. He was contemplating
something: should he be worried, appreciative, or angry? He was about to find out. After a
sigh, he opened the gate and walked in.
He could hear a lot of emphatic chatter from the main house as he passed – the landlord, who
was a headmaster, and his three kids, whom he headed, were still preparing for school. Tonde
waved at the headmaster’s wife who stood at the kitchen window, soaping down coffee mugs
in the kitchen sink.

At the back of the house was Akwaeke. He was James’ middle-aged Igbo neighbor who was
always in a bad mood. He blamed his ulcers, and James blamed his lack of female
companionship. Presently Akwaeke was hanging up clothes to dry on the wash-line. Pegs
clenched the hem of his wife-beater like tics onto bovine. Shorts, flip-flops. He was
complaining to himself about something.

“Awe, Akwaeke” said Tonde, raising a hand in greeting.

“Your friend is not here” he replied. He was done with the whites and he looked down at the
three buckets clustered by him.

“I see. Has he already left for work?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see him.”

“He slept here last night?”

“Do I sleep with him?”

“Surely you would have heard him if he was around last night?”

Akwaeke paused. He seemed to be trying to recall. It was difficult to tell for a man whose
face was always contorted into a hateful grimace, the face one would give the world if it were
a ruthless Mafia boss who had slaughtered his parents before his very eyes and whom he
encountered each day during his forays, but was powerless against.

Don Corleone but without the money, power and the respect.

“You hear a lot at night. I could have. I’m not sure.”

Carved onto the wood of James’ door were quadrants of swirls. The door appeared locked, a
glint of gold catching sun through the narrow space between door and frame.

“But think clearly for—“

A bucket of socks emptied itself on the grass under the wash-line. Akwaeke had thrown the
bucket with such unexpected ferocity that Tonde took two cautious steps back. Due to all the
water in which the socks were suspended, the bucket did not fly as far as it would have. It just
fell over anticlimactically, water gushing out in enthusiastic gulps.

“Haa! You would think I were being interrogated by FBI. Are you Scotland Yard?” He shook
a finger at Tonde. The sun was in his eyes. “He borrowed my box of tools yesterday. I have
also been on the lookout for him. Standing there by my doorstep. James is not here. You will
see him when you see him. But what about me? I must go to work, I need my tools. Will you
give me screwdriver? Will your questions provide spanner?”

Tonde said his goodbyes.

 3

Message from the Galaxy

The acronym ‘ETC’ was written in poor handwriting on one of the boxes. On another
cardboard box, barely legible, was ‘KITCHEN’. There was another box marked
‘TOILETRIES’ and ‘BEDDING’ and another written ‘MEMENTOS’. His clothes were still
packed inside the suitcases. The TV had been mounted already as well as a Sony surround
sound system of which he was very proud.

The bed would have to rest against the window so light could pour in while he read his
books. And he needed a new fruit rack because the old one had broken whilst he was moving
in. It was James who had broken it actually. He’d dropped it carelessly while he was getting
in at the gate and the joints broke in such a way that the rack slowly slid under the weight of
the fruits and toppled at some - most likely than not - inopportune time in the future. He
analyzed his old curtains; they were sufficient.

All in all, the room was not bad. A proper size; he could even put in a sofa or a desk for the
time he would have things to write again. The walls were a fresh coat of cream and the
landlord had basically sold him a new wardrobe for cheap. The tiles on the floor were stylish
and modern. The en suite bathroom also was a quaint little place with a sink and a mirror and
a shower with a goose for the showerhead. The toilet flushed without trouble, a point he
could unfortunately not say about his previous residence.

They’d hiked the rent in Vrederdop and James had said “At times a battle is won by one
warrior in espionage. This is not that time.” and a few days after they were moving Tonde’s
property the short distance from Vrederdop to Brixton; some mate of James’ had found of a
lady whose husband had recently died in a skydiving accident, and was hard up. She had
rooms to let.

It was going on eight am and Tonde was rummaging through ‘ETC’. He hadn’t had time to
unpack, get his room in order and properly settle in. The past few days had not allowed him
to partake in home décor. His phone was flat so he took out a charger and plugged it in. He
grabbed a handful of objects from ‘TOILETRIES’ and made for the shower.

He took a quick one. He didn’t like showers for the sole reason that his mind wandered to
unsavory places. It was like a rowdy toddler who, no matter how many times he is told not to
play up the tree, winds up scaling the branches and falling to a miserable death. Today,
particularly, he did not want to use his brain to think about nonsense.

A kota waited for him on top of a box. It was messy, thick sauces dripping over the cheese
and the ‘wors and the russian and the egg and the stack of fries which were arranged in the
bread cavity like logs of firewood. Just the way it ought to be. He grabbed juice from the
refrigerator and extracted a cup from ‘KITCHEN.’ He poured, sipped, thinking:

Hmmm. Oros.

He put the juice aside. He was interested in ‘MEMENTOS’. Moving houses had invoked in
him that tantalizing sensation of viewing one’s belongings - those odds and ends lying around
that one is so used to seeing that they turn almost invisible, become undetectable within their
surroundings – in a new light. He rummaged through the box.

A flashlight. Notes of the useless currency from back home, anyone’s guess what it was
worth now. Maybe less than a rand. Framed photographs that he buried as quickly as he had
dug them up. Econet and NetOne SIM cards. Masking tape, retractable pens, Eversharp pens,
and a university hoodie. A bracelet of diminutive skeletons. A bunch of keys that unlocked
something. A glossy pack of Protector Plus. He rummaged some more, then stopped. He held
his breath.

His palm felt genuine leather. He looked in. He had all but forgotten about the wretched
book. It was as black as crude oil, the Little Black Book from The Other World. On the cover
in golden type was the year. A long time ago in another existence. He shuddered. He took the
book in his hands and weighed it like it was heavy, weighed it as one who is purchasing
poultry might weigh a dead bird. There was a minty smell that issued from the pages as he
flipped through them. The unintelligible scrawls, the multitudes of ink color….

He stopped, read from the last pages:

‘They found her man---’

A knock sounded. Tonde closed the Little Black Book from The Other World. He took a shirt
and jean at random from a suitcase and attended to the door.

“Molweni.”

It was Regina. She was fresh-faced, beaming, dressed in a yellow ANC t-shirt. Her hands
were soiled.

“Hello.”

“Can I borrow you for a minute? If you’re not busy.”

“If it’s only a minute.”

Tonde followed her into the main house and into the kitchen. There, on the floor, was a fifty-
kilogram bag of fertilizer. The kitchen itself was spotless. The air smelt of Sunlight and pine
gel. Regina stood beside the bag with a shy smile. She looked young and innocent, qualities
Tonde was noticing for the first time. Regina bent awkwardly at the bag of fertilizer,
illustrating:

“I’m too weak to carry this all the way to the flower garden. Usually Jabulani was the one to
help. Sometimes I think ‘If only his parachute had not malfunctioned we—“

“I’m sorry.”

“No it’s alright. It’s not your fault.” She sniffled.

Tonde heaved the bag to the flower garden while Regina trailed behind. The flower garden
ran the whole length of one of the walls. It was partitioned into ten sections based on a
criteria of Regina’s making. It was a rainbow, the flower garden, with different shades of red,
and more shades of white. And purples and indigos and other colors whose names are only
known by professionals who work in fields where it is necessary to know such things.

When they arrived, she began plucking at the plants at random, picking out from each of the
ten partitions of the flower garden. There was a tiny shovel there and gloves and a watering
can. Tonde could see the colors but beyond that he had no knowledge or expertise with which
to differentiate the species.

Regina raised a yellow flower to Tonde’s nostrils “Smell this. What is it?”

“I don’t know. Like candy,” he said. He was looking at the sun, how far it was along its arc.

“Candy?” Regina laughed in shock. “This is a daffodil. Pretty isn’t it? People don’t pay it
much attention though. ”

“Ok.”

She raised another flower and waited, looking at him. This one was a potent red which looked
as if it would rub off on the hands.

“A rose. This one is easy.”

“But describe the smell. Come on.”

“It smells like a flower.”

Regina frowned. Tonde reached down into the garden. There, he picked a white flower which
was long with drooping petals and a green center.

“What is this?” he asked.

“That’s funny,” she said.

“What’s funny?”

“Kuthi that’s the flower that took your eye. It’s a chrysanthemum. They call it the flower of
death.” She took the flower from his hands and observed it. “People lay a bouquet of these on
the graves of their loved ones. Do you listen to 90’s rock music?”

“No.”
Regina said “My uncle owns a perfumery up in the Eastern Cape. He wants to offer me a job
but he says I need to train my nose first. He’s a tease but a hobby’s come out of it. These
flowers are like practice. And I needed a jousting partner but you’re no help mister.”

She smiled, poked him playfully with a finger.

“I have to go.” Tonde said.

“Oh, ok. That’s alright.”

He was about to make for his room when he remembered something.

“Regina?”

“Yes, Tonde?” she said quickly.

“Did I get any callers while I was gone?”

Regina screwed her face in thought. It was a long ponderous affair. She said, finally:

“No. I don’t think so.”

He was turning to go when he heard the cackle.

“I’m a fool. How come I behave like this?” she laughed. “You had a visitor came rather late
here looking for you. At midnight. By the way Tonde, you really need to tell your visitors---”

“James?” Tonde’s face lit up expectantly. Regina observed him.

“Maybe that is his first name. He gave me Naidoo. Indian guy.”

There was a look which washed over Tonde’s face. A mixture of disappointment,
enlightenment. And alarm.

“Were you expecting a James?”

“No. It’s alright. Thanks.”

“The man, Naidoo, said he might be back today.”

“It’s alright. Thanks.”

“Where were you last night anyway?” she asked, eyeing him.

“I’m not required to answer am I?”

“I was just making conversation,” she said, and crouched at her garden.

Tonde left her to her gardening. He went back to his room and continued eating. He sat by the
outlet where he finished off the kota. He turned on the Samsung Galaxy S5. The logo flashed
in a fizzle of color dust. The android loaded. A convoluted unlock pattern. He tried James’
phone. The number you have dialed is out of service. He called again. The number you have
dialed is out of service. Tonde called a third time. The number you have dialed……

“Fuck.” His mind was racing as it attempted to fit the jigsaw.

From the notification bar, two messages popped up.

The first, from a contact saved under ‘Advocate’, read as follows:

‘Say less.’

The second, this one from an unsaved phone number, read:

‘10 AM.’