Refuge (16 page)

‘Ooooh, yo, yo, yo!’ she shouted, alternately slapping her thigh and wiping her eyes. Richard stood still, watching them move off, still laughing and holding their heads. He felt his cellphone vibrate on silent in his pocket. The screen shone brightly, showing an SMS from an undisclosed private number. He pressed the ‘read’ button.

‘Gd nite Richard. Think of yr skin on mine. C u again soon. A.’

The words embedded themselves like fish hooks in his raw skin.

T
HE TRUCK
,
BOUND
for court, lurched and swayed and the huddled prisoners rocked against each other. Initially they tried to keep from pressing up against one another, but they soon gave up and let their weight push unrestrained from side to side. The vehicle stank of urine and excrement, and the windows were welded closed with wire mesh. A half-dried splash of vomit lay in the corner. When the engine idled at a robot or stop street, the interior filled up with acrid diesel fumes. There was no escaping the mounting stench.

Ifasen had felt nauseous from the moment he was prodded into the back, stumbling to pull himself up and knocking his knee on the metal tailgate. He sat bent over, rubbing his palms around his aching knee, trying not to make eye contact with any of his companions. The man next to him smelt of sweat, and he kept putting his bandaged hand on Ifasen’s knee to steady himself. The dirt and dried blood had turned the man’s bandage the colour of engine grease. Ifasen was exhausted from a sleepless weekend spent in the cells and the anxiety of what awaited him.

The numbers in the police cells had grown steadily from the time of his arrest on Friday. As soon as he was given an opportunity, he had tried to call Abayomi on her cellphone. She had not answered and the call had switched to the message service. He had left a message for her in Igbo, trying not to sound scared. The policemen standing around him frowned at his language and a young woman in uniform, her pretty face shrivelled up, shouted at him: ‘Talk English, fuckwit. You’re in South Africa now.’

He hurriedly finished his message, telling Abayomi that he was sorry, it was a stupid mistake, that he would be released soon. But even as he said the words, he doubted them. His situation had worsened with the arrival of Inspector Jeneker, who was unable to hide his delight at Ifasen’s arrest. He took him to a small holding cell just behind the charge office.

‘Take off your clothes, Nigel,’ Jeneker instructed.

Ifasen looked at him uncomprehendingly. He thought maybe the inspector was drunk, the way he spat and swayed.

‘Everything,
boetie
. All your clothes. Off.’

Ifasen undid his belt slowly, but Jeneker hurried him, haranguing him until the clothes lay in a messy pile on the ground. Ifasen worried that the floor looked dirty, that he would have to wash his shirt again over the weekend. He kept his underpants on, but the inspector yanked them down, tearing the elasticised strip along the top. Ifasen turned his back to him. Stained fingers had left smears across the wall. He tried not to put his hands on the wall where the dirt was thick. He felt the latex-covered hands pushing him towards the cold wall, his hands outstretched while his legs were pulled apart. Jeneker’s gloved hands slapped against his naked skin, slamming upwards into his groin and making him wince.

‘I don’t understand, sir, why you are doing this. Why is this necessary?’

Ifasen’s attempt at negotiation was met with a solid elbow-blow to the middle of his back, forcing the breath from him in a loud hiss.

Jeneker watched him dress again, pushing the fist of one hand into the palm of the other. The gloves lay crumpled on the ground at his feet. Ifasen could hear the radio crackling with instructions in the charge office. Someone shouted something, but Jeneker did not respond or move. He watched Ifasen with such intensity that the detainee wondered if something more was expected of him.

‘My son’s name is Mansoor.’ The timbre of Jeneker’s voice was taut. ‘He was at the top of his class in every subject two years ago. Maths, science, English, geography. He had the top marks in all of them. And sport? Vice-captain in school cricket, best striker they had on the soccer field at his club.’

Ifasen did not look at him, concentrating on dusting off his trousers and putting on his socks. He felt Jeneker’s hand slide under his chin, gripping his jaw. The smell of the powdery latex made him gag. Jeneker pulled up Ifasen’s head until their eyes met and looked at him with pure malevolence. Ifasen could see flecks of brown sprayed across his greenish iris. The man’s breath was hot and quick on his face.

‘Then some Nigerian fuck came along and handed out free strawberry tik straws.’ Jeneker pushed Ifasen away in disgust. ‘Do you know what my son does now, Nigel? Do you know?’

Ifasen shook his head ever so slightly, not wanting to enrage the man further. ‘He walks around the streets, stealing light bulbs and grabbing people’s cellphones for his next hit.’

Ifasen thought of Khalifah. He did not know what the man wanted to hear from him. If he wanted to hear anything at all. Could he say sorry, apologise for something that his countryman had done? Would it make any difference?

‘My son has been stabbed, fucked up, arrested, chased like an animal,’ Jeneker went on. ‘Last week I found Mansoor lying unconscious in the canal with the shit and dead dogs.’

Ifasen tried to say something but Jeneker was lost in his angry reverie, his fists closed tight. ‘This is what you have done! You and all your fucking people. All the same. All evil
poese
! So fucking well get your clothes on before I really fuck you up.’

Jeneker removed Ifasen’s belt and shoelaces, leaving his trousers floppy and ill-fitting. His feet slapped against the bottom of the shoes as he tried to walk. The inspector took him to another room with a wooden counter and bright white lights, and forced his fingers down, one by one, onto a greasy metal strip. Jeneker rolled Ifasen’s fingers, thick with pasty black ink, on a sheet of paper, cursing him when he smeared the print over the lines. He motioned to him to wash his hands. The jellied pink hand soap, scooped out of a small bucket, only spread the black stain across the back of Ifasen’s hands and left his skin slimy. The sodden hand towel reminded him of the goatskins hung up after the summer slaughter, and he flicked the water off his hands rather than touch it.

Then Jeneker led him across a yard filled with parked police vans and crushed cars recovered from accidents. In the corner, a tall armoured vehicle was parked up close to the wall, the grille at the front slightly bent, giving it a demented grin. Jeneker pulled open a heavy metal door. The keys clanked as he unlocked the barred gate and shoved Ifasen into the darkness of the chilly cell.

‘I am sorry for your son,’ Ifasen said from the gloom. Jeneker did not seem to hear. He threw a dusty blanket through the doorway and slammed the grate and door closed.

The dark enclosure immediately threw Ifasen into a claustrophobic panic. He put his hands against the cool cement walls and closed his eyes, waiting for the moment to pass. He tried to think of Abayomi, and of Khalifah, but his terror only raised the memories that he tried to quell. An afternoon in Abeokuta. He had been walking with Abayomi in the marketplace, their fingers intertwined as they strolled past the makeshift stalls and baskets. Abayomi had been eating a ripe custard apple, pulling the segments out with her teeth and spitting the seeds into the dust around their feet. The smell of the fruit was rich and glorious. And then the shouts of men and the popping blows of gunfire had filled the air. People scattered, bounding like antelope as they scrambled between the sacks of beans and rice. A militia jeep appeared at the end of the lane, weaving and revving over the uneven ground. A clay pot filled with yellow-green achar smashed open beside them, sending shards across the stall and spraying the ground with slimy peppers and chillies. Ifasen grabbed Abayomi’s arm and pulled her between two stalls and into the open mouth of a metal transport container. He pulled the screeching doors closed behind him, plunging the space into utter darkness.

Outside, the gunfire had continued. Some shots were fired in rapid succession into the sky; others were more considered, single cracks that made the sides of the container sing. One bullet struck the door, leaving a dent but failing to puncture the metal, and no light penetrated. Ifasen and Abayomi huddled in the corner, covered in burlaps and heavy tarpaulins. Abayomi shook with fear, clutching at Ifasen’s arm, tighter and tighter. Small sobs escaped in spurts from her mouth and she pushed her face into the crook of his neck. The custard apple was smeared across her dress. As the container heated up in the sun, the sickly smell of the fruit started to make Ifasen feel ill. Outside the shouts continued. The sound of a jeep pulling up close by, people moaning, protesting. The crack of a whip or baton on someone’s back. Their sweat had run freely, covering them in a slick, dirty film. The heat in the container became unbearable. With nothing to drink, they could feel their bodies depleting and their throats tensing for relief. Abayomi’s sobbing slowed and stopped, until she lay in a sopping daze, not knowing if her eyes were open or closed.

They hid in the container for many hours, until all sound had ceased and the last jeep accelerated away. The sun had already started to set when Ifasen crawled on his hands and knees to the door. Even the lowered light of dusk was blinding. He felt Abayomi crawl up next to him and together they peered out through the opening. There was no one about. Some of the stalls had collapsed, their palm-frond roofs dangling on strings, and many of the hessian bags of food were missing.

Ifasen smelt the blood before he saw it, salty and ferrous. Just next to the door, a viscous pool had collected up against the side of the container. The edges were already drying, dark and solid-looking, but the centre was still bright red. He stood up and pushed the door open. Other darkened patches were spotted across the marketplace. They left, clinging to each other. They had never spoken of that day again. There were other days like it and they did not speak of these either. But in the darkness of the police cell, the nightmares emerged unbidden.

Ifasen was thankful when another person was admitted to the cell later that evening. The door crashed open and a protesting young man was thrown in. He smelt of alcohol, but was talkative and distracted Ifasen from his thoughts. After a while Ifasen lay down in the corner furthest from the open toilet. He wrapped himself in the blanket. It was scratchy and smelt of stagnant river water and mould. He tried not to think of the lice swarming over his body and closed his eyes to sleep. But throughout the course of the Friday night, he was awoken by the scraping noise of the keys as the small cell started to fill up. Belligerent drunks and petty thieves stumbled into the gloom, clutching their few possessions. The newcomers would tread on others, falling about until they found an empty patch of concrete to lie down on. Some would shout and argue and a fight would break out, with kicking feet and swearing. Someone had fallen on Ifasen, his elbow jarring against his half-open mouth and bruising his top lip. There was no mirror or light to inspect the damage, but Ifasen could feel that it was swollen and his tongue kept running over the crease of a split on the inside of his mouth. He lay on his back, pushing his eyelids shut and trying to block out the noises around him.

On the Saturday, in the first dim light of the morning, he counted eleven inmates. The thick panes of glass, positioned high above them, were smeared and crusted, making the light itself seem grubby. A young constable arrived with a loaf of bread and a small tin of jam piled onto an enamel plate. Ifasen reached the locked gate just before the policeman closed the door.

‘Please,’ he said, putting his hand through the bars to stop the door from closing. The constable looked irritated but kept the door slightly open. His blond hair was spiky and stuck out from beneath his cap messily. ‘I need to speak to Inspector Jeneker. Please call him for me.’

The policeman shook his head. ‘The inspector is off this weekend. He is only back on duty on Monday.’ He tried to close the door but Ifasen kept his hand pushing against it.

‘Please. What must I do then?’

‘Monday you go to court,’ the young man answered, forcing the door closed. Ifasen heard the double lock turn over and the man’s retreating footfall. When he turned back to the cell, the bread had been finished.

Abayomi had listened to Ifasen’s message in the early hours of Friday evening. The moment she heard his voice, speaking Igbo, she knew that there was trouble. She listened to his words twice more, trying to extract everything from his stilted tone. She collected some of his clothes in a plastic bag but could not leave Khalifah alone, and Sunday was nowhere to be seen. Eventually, on the Saturday morning, she organised for her son to go to her neighbour, a young mother with a child of her own. When she dropped Khalifah off, the young woman’s own baby was crying, yellow mucus running from his nose. Abayomi hesitated at the door, seeing Khalifah’s darting eyes. She had no choice and departed, stopping at the Spar to buy some food for her husband.

As she pushed open the glass door to the charge office, the constable behind the counter smiled at her. He looked like a teenager with his unbrushed hair and pretty face. The office was unnaturally bright and airy, filled with posters and files covered in Christmas wrapping paper. It seemed more like the reception for a clinic or a crèche. She smiled back briefly at the young policeman and asked to see her husband. Ifasen’s name sounded strained on her lips.

The constable nodded courteously, his eyes drifting down her neck towards her chest. Abayomi dragged her loose top closed. The policeman mumbled something and pulled out a large register from beneath the counter. The pages smelt musty and were filled with scrawled black writing. He ran his finger up the column of handwritten names, starting at the bottom of the page. Even as he searched the long list, Abayomi could see Ifasen’s name printed near the top. She waited patiently.