Read Under African Skies Online
Authors: Charles Larson
Under African Skies (38 page)
“
What?
”
What?
”
“I said gimme the
fokken
keys, I'll drive.” There was a suggestion of great violence barely held in check in Ranger's tone. Caleb had an image of crazy, blind fury unleashing itself upon him. He surrendered the keys. Ranger got into the driver's seat and adjusted it. He leaned sideways to unlatch the door lock and let Caleb in. Instinctively, Caleb pulled the seat belt to strap himself in. “No seat belts,” Ranger said. “You want to die, don't you?” He turned his eyes in the passenger's direction. Then he inserted the key into the ignition, released the hand brake, and felt for the gears. “
Ja
,” Ranger said
as he steered the car slowly out of the parking space onto the road, “we're now in business.”
fokken
keys, I'll drive.” There was a suggestion of great violence barely held in check in Ranger's tone. Caleb had an image of crazy, blind fury unleashing itself upon him. He surrendered the keys. Ranger got into the driver's seat and adjusted it. He leaned sideways to unlatch the door lock and let Caleb in. Instinctively, Caleb pulled the seat belt to strap himself in. “No seat belts,” Ranger said. “You want to die, don't you?” He turned his eyes in the passenger's direction. Then he inserted the key into the ignition, released the hand brake, and felt for the gears. “
Ja
,” Ranger said
as he steered the car slowly out of the parking space onto the road, “we're now in business.”
Then Ranger stepped on the accelerator, sending the car shooting up the thoroughfare, scattering a group of Mozambicans like skittles. “Used to drive in New York,” Ranger said as he gunned the car past the amber lights on the left into Abel Road, edging off a minibus. The taxi hooted as it avoided Ranger, almost cannoning into a Clover Dairies delivery truck. “Simple city to drive in, New York. Perfect for blind people like me, with all that Braille from the potholes.” He paused to stick his head out of the window and curse the taxi driver. “What's the matter with you, man? You blind or something?”
While all this was taking place, Nothando was idly leafing through magazines such as
Cosmopolitan
,
Style
, and
Drum
, pausing to scrutinize the advice columns. She read Tom Crabtree's contribution regarding male baldness. Quickly tossing the magazine onto the desk, she put on her jacket and picked up her handbag. Marcia was in the office kitchen, drinking her umpteenth cup of coffee while holding forth about sugar daddies. Nothando caught her friend's attention, tapped her wrist to indicate that it was lunchtime, and retreated into the lobby. Most of the typists, young women who worshipped at the shrine of the shopping mall, had long since broken off for lunch. Only a few stragglers who were victims of tyrannical superiors were still at it, tapping at their keyboards and brusquely responding to telephone inquiries. Hell hath no fury like a woman done out of her lunch hour. Nothando remembered a story she had heard from one friend who was a returned exile. The secretarial staff at the ANC headquarters in Lusaka was sent on a course where people learned, among other things, telephone manners. The then President Oliver Tambo called his office. “ANC headquarters,” a smooth voice said. “Dudu speaking, good morning, can I help you?” Tambo had to ask twice whether this was the ANC office, possibly wondering if his organization hadn't been taken over by the Swedish Embassy, before he was convinced that he was phoning the right place. Listening to the hum of computers and the constipated belch from the photocopier, Nothando marveled at the amount of paper that got pushed every day in the office.
Cosmopolitan
,
Style
, and
Drum
, pausing to scrutinize the advice columns. She read Tom Crabtree's contribution regarding male baldness. Quickly tossing the magazine onto the desk, she put on her jacket and picked up her handbag. Marcia was in the office kitchen, drinking her umpteenth cup of coffee while holding forth about sugar daddies. Nothando caught her friend's attention, tapped her wrist to indicate that it was lunchtime, and retreated into the lobby. Most of the typists, young women who worshipped at the shrine of the shopping mall, had long since broken off for lunch. Only a few stragglers who were victims of tyrannical superiors were still at it, tapping at their keyboards and brusquely responding to telephone inquiries. Hell hath no fury like a woman done out of her lunch hour. Nothando remembered a story she had heard from one friend who was a returned exile. The secretarial staff at the ANC headquarters in Lusaka was sent on a course where people learned, among other things, telephone manners. The then President Oliver Tambo called his office. “ANC headquarters,” a smooth voice said. “Dudu speaking, good morning, can I help you?” Tambo had to ask twice whether this was the ANC office, possibly wondering if his organization hadn't been taken over by the Swedish Embassy, before he was convinced that he was phoning the right place. Listening to the hum of computers and the constipated belch from the photocopier, Nothando marveled at the amount of paper that got pushed every day in the office.
Accompanied by Marcia, she now showed her pass at the security gate and waited while Marcia opened her door. Nothando felt unaccountably tired; the strain of work combined with what had become a thankless task of raising two headstrong girls was beginning to tell. Moreover, she had a feeling that Caleb was soon going to develop into a headache. Funny, she
thought, how you marry someone and they look like your dream man; then,
bang!
something transforms them overnight into a potbellied, spindly-legged old man whose bristles irritate you. Many of the women in the office were unashamed about the means they employed to offset suburban ennui. But she was past playing games. Nothando had once seriously considered an affair, but her inner self had cautioned against it; an affair was a headache. And then there was that eternal, fatal advocate of chastity, AIDS. In her line of work, she was duty-bound to counsel the staffers on the hazards of casual sex. Even though she had been thoroughly grounded in the workings of the dread disease, and how it could be contracted, she couldn't quite see herself telling a man to wear a condom. She had once tried one on herself and quickly discarded it. It had felt as if she were walking with a Checker's rustly carrier bag between her legs. So, no extramarital
fickie-fickie
, as one of TransStar's more brazen Arabic customers would say.
thought, how you marry someone and they look like your dream man; then,
bang!
something transforms them overnight into a potbellied, spindly-legged old man whose bristles irritate you. Many of the women in the office were unashamed about the means they employed to offset suburban ennui. But she was past playing games. Nothando had once seriously considered an affair, but her inner self had cautioned against it; an affair was a headache. And then there was that eternal, fatal advocate of chastity, AIDS. In her line of work, she was duty-bound to counsel the staffers on the hazards of casual sex. Even though she had been thoroughly grounded in the workings of the dread disease, and how it could be contracted, she couldn't quite see herself telling a man to wear a condom. She had once tried one on herself and quickly discarded it. It had felt as if she were walking with a Checker's rustly carrier bag between her legs. So, no extramarital
fickie-fickie
, as one of TransStar's more brazen Arabic customers would say.
Marcia interrupted her train of thought by suggesting that they skip the usual fare of spare ribs and chips and instead get some bagels with cream cheese from Feigel's kosher deli on Raleigh Street. The broad street of Yeoville was so full of people, some meandering aimlessly, that Nothando secretly hankered for the return of influx control. As she munched her bagel with the car rolling slowly down Hendon, she remembered the time when the sight of a uniformed cop meant that layabouts made themselves scarce. Now, she thought,
tsotsis
don't give a hoot; when they see a cop they try to sell him a stolen car radio. The spirit of new entrepreneurship, this morning's car attendant is tonight's mugger. Apartheid was bad, sure, but maybe it isn't right that people threw out the baby with the bathwater. Some of the laws needed to remain, else how can a woman feel safe? People should get their priorities right, stop picking on poor Winnie and â¦
tsotsis
don't give a hoot; when they see a cop they try to sell him a stolen car radio. The spirit of new entrepreneurship, this morning's car attendant is tonight's mugger. Apartheid was bad, sure, but maybe it isn't right that people threw out the baby with the bathwater. Some of the laws needed to remain, else how can a woman feel safe? People should get their priorities right, stop picking on poor Winnie and â¦
Then she saw the car, there was no mistaking it was Caleb's pink jalopy. It streaked out of Abel into Harrow and almost flew into the brick wall behind which stood the Courtleigh luxury accommodation flats, narrowly missing a vendor who had been whistling as he stood on an unbroken line in the middle of the street. Marcia said: “Isn't that ⦔
“
Ja, uCaleb!
” Nothando screamed, reverting to Zulu, her primal comforter in times of crisis. “
Mlandele!
” She heard the screech of brakes and loud curses as drivers swerved to avoid the pink streak of madness bearing down on them.
Ja, uCaleb!
” Nothando screamed, reverting to Zulu, her primal comforter in times of crisis. “
Mlandele!
” She heard the screech of brakes and loud curses as drivers swerved to avoid the pink streak of madness bearing down on them.
Marcia caught the light before it went red, turned the wheel hard, and directed the Toyota down Harrow Road, herself missing a Volvo driven by
Hasidic Jews. Three cars ahead, the Renault picked up speed, heading south. Nothando read the overhead blue-and-white sign, DOORNFONTEIN; where was Caleb going to, and at such speed? Marcia overtook two cars. Nothando looked out of the window, seeing the old Albambra Theatre, a panel van reversing quickly into Bates Road. “Don't worry,” Marcia said, beads of perspiration on her nose. “I used to moonlight with Maxi Taxis ⦔ Then the skeletal railings on their left, beyond them the railway to Germiston, Brakpan, Benoni. Nothando looked at all these structures which were part of her city, strange now, much like the once-familiar car headed to hell. The mine dump, the old mine, the girders and cables bespeaking obsolete glories. Far ahead, above her husband's car, stood the rubber factory, Dunlop. She wondered why Americans chose to call condoms “rubbers.” Caleb, you dumb son of a no-good bitch, she thought viciously, why are you doing this?
Hasidic Jews. Three cars ahead, the Renault picked up speed, heading south. Nothando read the overhead blue-and-white sign, DOORNFONTEIN; where was Caleb going to, and at such speed? Marcia overtook two cars. Nothando looked out of the window, seeing the old Albambra Theatre, a panel van reversing quickly into Bates Road. “Don't worry,” Marcia said, beads of perspiration on her nose. “I used to moonlight with Maxi Taxis ⦔ Then the skeletal railings on their left, beyond them the railway to Germiston, Brakpan, Benoni. Nothando looked at all these structures which were part of her city, strange now, much like the once-familiar car headed to hell. The mine dump, the old mine, the girders and cables bespeaking obsolete glories. Far ahead, above her husband's car, stood the rubber factory, Dunlop. She wondered why Americans chose to call condoms “rubbers.” Caleb, you dumb son of a no-good bitch, she thought viciously, why are you doing this?
He's trying to kill himself
.
.
This thought came to her just as she heard the sirens wailing behind. With it was a memory of Chris, an old childhood friend who had tried to kill himself. Having been jilted by his girlfriend, Chris announced to all and sundry that he was serious about suicide. Nothando and a group of friendsâand Chris's reason for wanting to leave this cruel worldâfollowed him unobserved as he sought a tree in Mofolo Park. They had never seen a person actually dying, this was going to be a golden opportunity. They watched him installing breeze blocks at the foot of the tree, loop the rope over the branch and secure the noose around his neck. Only the tree was a sapling; it sagged with Chris, making Nothando think of one of those ineffectual snares township boys set for birds. Having failed, Chris trekked to the railway line near Orlando Station. He stretched himself across the tracks and waited for the train. The sun was hot, which meant that the steel tracks must have been blistering. Chris left the rail tracks to look for pieces of corrugated paper in the bushes. While he was reaping his strange harvest, a train rolled past. He went back to the rails and made a bed for himself. Nothando and her friends crouched in the tall grass, also waiting for the train. What came was not the train but a platoon of railway workers in their ocher overalls, each with the SAR&H logo on the breast pocket. They carried signs which Chris would have gratefully added to his bedding. The South African Railways and Harbors Union had called a strike earlier in the week; hence the scarcity of trains. The singing and
toyi-toying
railway workers made a sound not unlike the Kiwis' rugby
haka
when they saw Chris. Since being
torn limb from limb was not part of his suicide repertoire, he got up and dashed into the bush, over the fence, and onto steady township ground.
toyi-toying
railway workers made a sound not unlike the Kiwis' rugby
haka
when they saw Chris. Since being
torn limb from limb was not part of his suicide repertoire, he got up and dashed into the bush, over the fence, and onto steady township ground.
Nothando heard a loud crash as the pink Renault slewed off the highway into Rissik Street. The sirens got louder; the vehicles to their left skidded and tortured brakes screeched as each driver strove to avoid being embroiled in a pileup. Nothando couldn't remember when or how she had got out of the Toyota, but she found herself running toward Caleb's ruined car, which had hit the railings and edged a quarter way into space. Mangled steel and chrome, spinning wheels, scorpion-like breakdown trucks, flashing lights, and the incessant scream of the sirenâall these sights and sounds blended in Nothando's mind, releasing an impulse that had been struggling for expression in her chest. She screamed: “
Caaaaaaaaleb!
”
Caaaaaaaaleb!
”
This cry, coming from lungs which had been trained in church choirs, vigils, and admonishment of rebellious children, rang above the roar of traffic, almost shattered the eardrums of nearby police officers and onlookers, and caused a flock of pigeons to start in midair and soar into the sheltering sky. It was heard in the offices of the car dealers along Eloff and Albert streets. Commuters coming out of Faraday Station stopped in mid-stride, pricked up their ears, and rushed to the source of the scream. In an interview with
The Sowetan
later that afternoon, the chef who had been sweating in the kitchen abandoned his fried chicken at Chicken Licken because, for him, what he had heard was a trumpet heralding Judgment Day.
The Sowetan
later that afternoon, the chef who had been sweating in the kitchen abandoned his fried chicken at Chicken Licken because, for him, what he had heard was a trumpet heralding Judgment Day.
A burly policeman, Warrant Officer van Vuuren, stopped his squad car and rushed into the melee. He shoved the curious onlookers until he got to the crashed car. Working with the breakdown attendants, he prised the doors open, dragged the two men out, and laid them on the road. Nothando, breathless, rushed to Caleb's side, swabbing the blood off his brow with her jacket. Moaning his name repeatedly, she gazed upon his face, noticing as if for the first time that he had an old, cuticle-shaped scar above the left eyebrow. The realization that she had missed this little detail brought about a gush of emotions she had never suspected she possessed. Nothando knew then that she loved Caleb, this fool, her fallen hero, who now lay like a log, breathing the foul smell of unwashed socks and tar.
When he opened his eyes and smiled, Nothando almost wept with relief. Then her eyes were blinded by rage. She pulled him up until he was wobbling on unsteady feet. Pushing him against the car, she started pummeling him with her fists, shrieking, “You bastardyoubastardyoubastard,” until, spent, she collapsed against him. Van Vuuren, who obviously hadn't read
Commissioner George Fivaz's latest tract on community policing, was busy slapping a groggy Ranger.
Commissioner George Fivaz's latest tract on community policing, was busy slapping a groggy Ranger.
“You
fokken blerry mampara
,” van Vuuren hissed, “how many times have I told you to steer off trouble? You know that you're giving us wit mense a bad name?”
fokken blerry mampara
,” van Vuuren hissed, “how many times have I told you to steer off trouble? You know that you're giving us wit mense a bad name?”
“Officer,” Caleb said, extricating himself from Nothando's arms, “you can't do that to Ranger. He was trying to help me.”
Van Vuuren turned round and studied Caleb. “You stupid idiot,” he said. “You must count yourself lucky that he didn't kill you. This man,” he continued, pulling Ranger by one ear, “has been a
blerry
headache for us since leaving Sterkfontein.”
blerry
headache for us since leaving Sterkfontein.”
“No matter,” Caleb persisted. “The man is blind, after all ⦔
“Blind?” Van Vuuren laughed. “Is that the latest trick, now?” He turned to Ranger. “Tell me you're blind, you son-of-a-bitch, and I'll personally
moer
your eyes out.”
moer
your eyes out.”
“
Ag
,” Ranger said conversationally, “be reasonable, Kolonel.” He shrugged. “A
mens
has got to live,
mos
.”
Ag
,” Ranger said conversationally, “be reasonable, Kolonel.” He shrugged. “A
mens
has got to live,
mos
.”
The crowed which had collected petered out. An ambulance came and the two men were installed inside. Nothando climbed in and sat beside her stunned husband. Caleb still couldn't believe that Ranger was not blind. He wanted to dive across and beat him up, but he was feeling too weak. Even thinking about what he and Ranger had got up to was a strain.
A month later, Caleb resigned from his job at Allied Life and set up an organization called Progressive Hairlessness Educational Workshop. Headquartered at a small office overlooking the new Constitutional Court in Braamfontein, PHEW, as it was popularly known, started off badly, with the media dismissing it as a monumental hoax. But they hadn't bargained for Caleb's tenacity. Working day and night, he canvassed his erstwhile insurance clients (and people didn't dodge him now that he was no longer a threat) and importuned bald celebrities in the Gauteng region to endorse PHEW. Ranger emerged from his adventures to lend a hand. The two men inserted advertisements in the papers, seized every opportunity to speak for the hairless on the radio. Using his insurance connections, Caleb patented a logo, an egg with a confident smile above and below, with PHEW and “pride of the hairless” in lowercase red letters.
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