Who knows why Punishment was given
the name Punishment? Punishment himself assumed it was because his mother had
felt guilty about conceiving and bearing him out of wedlock: he was, quite
literally, the Punishment to fit her crime. Unfortunately he never got the
chance to ask her about his unusual name as she committed suicide before
teaching him to speak. It was his grandmother who raised him, in as much as
that little she did could reasonably be described as a “raising”. Punishment
intuited that there was no point at all in asking his taciturn grandmother any
questions regarding the origin of his name, since her discourse never went
beyond the harshly barked orders that were intended to keep him busy, to keep
him “out of the Devil’s hands” as she used to put it.
Because
of his mother’s suicide, or because of poverty, or perhaps because of his name,
Punishment always felt embarrassed. He was not embarrassed about anything in
particular, any this or that, in fact, really, he was basically
embarassed about everything. Even his grandmother’s grim survivalist humour
embarrassed him. She would cackle harshly about their state of penury, “We are
boycotting! We are boycotting everything!”
But
inexorably, as Punishment grew older, the need for money became greater and
thus it was that Punishment took to crime.
Papa
Smile grins and wheezes, “You gotta die young if you want to live forever,”
then he hands over the revolver to Punishment who flicks open the magazine with
one hand and pops the bullets in one by one with a thoroughness and efficiency
that make it seem like he was born to do mischief. Perhaps he was.
Mogau,
Ras Kolnikov, Papa Smile and Punishment leave Ringo’s shack in Diepsloot just
before sunset. Papa Smile drives the beemer carelessly as he always does. The
cars are stolen easily and done away with just as easily. They are vehicles of
utility undeserving of respect. And besides that, Papa Smile simply digs the
rush of flooring the gas pedal. The navy blue beemer races through Dainfern,
overtaking many minibus taxis on the way. Punishment enjoys the aggressive
reactions the beemer receives from the taxi drivers. Punishment enjoys being
with his majitas. Punishment enjoys holding his steel in his fingers. He hopes
he will get to use it tonight.
In
Westbury Ras Kolnikov and Mogau dip inside the Milky Way while Papa Smile and
Punishment wait in the car. Mogau is first back and first to take a hit on the
whoonga. Ras Kolnikov climbs in the back next to Punishment, his massive mane
of dreads performing a complexly choreographed ritual with every movement that
he makes. Once high, all high, the four of them feel impervious to pain, to
rational thought, to mortality. Punishment fingers his steel anxiously, now,
more than hoping that he will get to use it, he needs to use it.
Papa
Smile turns the beemer into 5th Street, Westdene. The 4 Tikmen of
the Apocalypse hit a luck. White boy climbing out his Polo to open the gate.
Mash ‘im up! Warrior charge. Screech.
Of.
Brakes.
Like
lightning.
All
four out of the car. Ras Kolnikov first to the man. Steel to the forehead.
Trigger finger grinning. “The keys, give me the keys!” White boy hands up
without asking. He knows what time it is. Takes a slap. Takes another slap. And
another.
Klap.
Klap. Klap.
Keys
change hands. “Inside! Inside!” White boy on his knees now being half dragged
half kicked along the garden path by Papa Smile. Big grin time. Punishment
closes the gate behind them.
At the
front door it's boot in boot in boot in. White boy coughing and bleeding. Mogau
brings his face close to the prey’s, “We don’t got time to waste, open the
fucken door.” Inside another luck. White boy must be a studio head. Speakers and
mixing gear everywhere. Party time. Be thorough. A man in each room. Papa Smile
in charge of the tie up. Belt round the wrists. Silk tie over the eyes. White
boy on his knees, arms behind his back, head pushed under the studio table.
Dimly hears Papa Smile’s wicked humour, “We don’t want to do this
brother, it’s the poverty.”
Boot
in boot in again. Everybody gets a turn. Load up the vehicle. Mogau and Ras
Kalnikov get to take the Polo. Outtahere. Papa Smile watching Punishment
carefully. The acid test. “Are you with us man? Or are you with us?” Hesitation
never made a jita out of anyone. Punishment knows this. Cocks the gun. White
boy had this coming. Shouldn’t have been born in Jozi. Shouldn’t have been
born. Lighting flash an’ im weak heart drop.
Then
they’re both running to the car. Papa Smile grinning from ear to ear. “Respek.”
Punishment in the passenger’s seat. Watching Ontdekkers Road flash by. Then
onto the freeway. And it’s good that it’s called the “free way” ‘cos it is
free and it is the way.
Mogau
and Ras Kolnikov have to dump the Polo in Industria because they can’t find the
tracker. They call Papa Smile and then foot it to Main Reef Road where the
beemer picks them up. Back to Ringo’s to convert into cash all the goods that
they’ve managed to stuff in the boot of the beemer. Negotiations are bone dry.
Ringo can’t use a left speaker without the right one so the Yamaha white studio
monitor is thrown into the veld disgustedly. The mixing desk nets four hundred.
The portable computer eight. Various odds and ends another hundred. There’s a
dvd of Tsotsi in the pile. “Hey let’s watch this!”
The
film starts off well but none of the ‘jitas can take Presley Chweneyagae
seriously. He looks like the kind of moegoe who would buy a driver’s license
from a Cameroonian. By the end of the movie, with Presley in tears, crying for
redemption, the inhabitants of Ringo’s den are in uproar. “Voetsek!” “Bleddy
rubbish!” Papa Smile sums up all of their feelings when he quips, “If we had
found that baby we would have raped it!” Raucous laughter. Mogau trades a
handclap with Papa Smile. “You know!”
Time
to head out into the night. Mogau wants to drive. He guides the beemer into the
parking lot at Montecasino. Pays ten rand to park it. Security gives the four
of them a thorough pat down at the entrance but there’s no steel to be found.
They’ve left that in the beemer. Forty minutes later later they’ve lost all
their money. Roulette took care of that. Decisions decisions. Mogau stays in
the car outside the Fourways Seven Eleven, keeps it idling. Papa Smile, Ras
Kalnikov and Punishment separate inside, each takes a corner. Papa Smile’s
knife is held very close to the throat of the shop manager, there’s no need to indulge
in lengthy orations. Punishment holds his steel sideways, just in front of the
cashier’s nose, imagines himself so much more authentic gangsta looking than
Presley. Holds out the palm of his left hand. Receives the full load of notes
from the cash register. Smiles and says “thank you”. There’s no drama. Not
until they’re almost in the car and some white lady drives up and starts
screaming. Not a problem. Punishment delivers. The first bullet goes into her
shoulder. Bitch screams even louder. That wasn’t the intention. More bullets.
Bitch doesn’t stop screaming. “Ay suga man come on!” The manager comes running
out of the Seven Eleven. Oh boy why did he do that? Papa Smile lets him have
it. The look on his face. So surprised! Actually a very funny face that he
pulled. None of the four ‘jitas can stop screaming and laughing. Mogau pulls
off, engine roaring, Punishment re-lives the last few mintues again and again
in his head, relishing the images and sounds in slow motion, screen capturing
moments of exceptional vigour; the spray of blood from her shoulder, the look
of extreme terror just before she realised she was going to die. It was a good
night out and the best part of it was that it wasn’t over yet.
Melville.
It’s Ras Kolnikov that makes the link between the absurdity of a cocktail bar
called Seven and the David Fincher film. “You see if David Fincher had directed
Tsotsi it would have been a great movie. He would never have settled for
that lameass ending. He would have given the film môya ô mobe, which it
lacks.” Ras Kolnikov’s constant talk about films bores Punishment who hasn’t
seen many films and is embarrassed by his ignorance. He does not even know what
a director does. But Punishment doesn’t want to talk about anything. No subject
is as good as the real thing. He fingers the steel in the right hand pocket of
his Adidas trainer jacket. Sips a fat one from his bottle of Smirnoff Sting.
Mogau takes the discussion through to Hennessy, his liquor of choice. Papa
Smile scoffs at Hennessy, lifts his double Johnny Walker Black, nods to his
‘jitas, gulps, nods again, gulps the rest.
They
leave the cocktail bar just after 2am, walk down 7th and turn
into 5th where each of them takes position behind a tree or a fence.
Philemon the car guard asks Ras Kolnikov what they are doing. “Didimala
budulala” whispers the dreadlocked one as he hands Philemon a twenty rand
note. The car guard takes the money and scurries away from the scene of the
crime-to-be, wanting neither to see evil nor to hear it.
When
the cocktail waitress leaves Seven accompanied by her boyfriend she feels
elated and aroused. Tips have been excellent and the two lines of white that
she got from her manager have left her feeling horny and definitely in the mood
for some after work action. Her boyfriend has just knocked off from Trancesky
where he works as a barman. The two of them are hand in hand, both thinking
about the imminent love-making, when the four ‘jitas surround the couple.
There
is no real sense of time. Reality steps out of the equation and all that is
left is steel. Steel barrels and steel blades. Four of them. “Easy now. No
screaming.” The voice appers to be coming from the blade being held to his
throat. No mouths were opened, no tongues moved. Only steel is real. Cold steel.
“Where is your car?” The boyfriend nearly falters, swallows his words, fear
muting his voioce, throat drying up and closing as if filled with sand. The
waitress speaks for them both. “Over there.” Points to a battered Mazda, must
be at least ten years old. “Look guys just take the car and the money, please
leave us alone.” She shouldn’t have said that. The ‘jitas are not “guys.” They
are “meneers.” And who wants to take an old Mazda anyway. That car’s a
disgrace. Papa Smile gloats unctuously when he takes the keys from her and
opens the boot. He uses his steel to point inside and makes a courteous bow.
“After you.” Nudged in the head by Mogau’s blade and in the side by
Punishment’s barrel there doesn’t seem like anything else for the boyfriend to
do. He climbs into the boot. Papa Smile closes it carefully. Throws a
meaningful look at Mogau. “Meet you in ‘Bisa.” Mogau nods, turns away and
starts walking down the road to wards where the beemer is parked. Papa Smile
rasps, “Hey!” Mogau turns back, “Ja?” Papa Smile grins impishly, “Drive
safely!” Mogau and Punishment both break out into unaffected laughter. The
waitress is staring at all three of them with unbelieving eyes, eyes that are
unable to find anything funny in the situation. Then she’s in the back seat of
her Mazda, sitting between Punishment and Mogau while Papa Smile drives,
occasionally glancing up at her in the rear view mirror.
It
comes as a surprise to him but Punishment doesn’t feel embarrassed. He has his
left hand on the waitress’ right leg and he can smell her fear and the
stiffening he feels announces the end of embarrassment, the beginning of
something altogether different, something powerful. On the other side of the
waitress Mogau is whispering into her ear while he plays with his steel across
her breasts as if caressing and comforting them.
“Say tsutsu.
Say it. Tsutsu.”
The
waitress is frozen with terror. Doesn’t know what the word means. Says it
anyway.
“Tsutsu.”
Papa
Smile and Punishment howl with pleasure. Punishment digs his fingers into her
left leg, enjoys the heat he feels there, the heat of fear, blood charging into
her centre. Mogau continues the Sesotho lesson.
“Now
say ntoto. Ntoto.”
Mogau’s
steel travels up close to her throat and convinces her to enunciate the alien
word clearly and distinctly.
“Ntoto.”
“Again.”
There
is a harshness in Mogau’s voice that belies the meaning of his name, Mercy.
There will be no mercy tonight.
“Ntoto.”
Papa
Smile cracks up, cranks the speed, eager now to get to Tembisa, to get to a
safe house, eager to take the night’s play to its logical conclusion.
“Now
say ntsutsu ntoto.”
“Ntstsu
ntoto.”
The
waitress wants to do the right thing, is desperate to placate these men who are
everything now, who have everything in their hands, in their steel. These men
who sit guarding her life and her death, making decisions that will determine
the course of the rest of her life. She needs to please these men. To find
solutions. Mogau can sense her eagerness to please and this does indeed please
him and so it is with relish that he introduces a new word to the waitress’
burgeoning vocabulary.
“Phinyô.
Say phinyô.”
She
says it. She says “phinyô without understanding what the word means but
she says it delightfully and the car is filled with the waves of ecstatic
laughter of three ‘jitas who really are having a wonderful time and what an
enjoyable night this has turned out to be and Punishment thinks to himself that
all of the embarrassment that he always used to feel has suddenly dried up, has
evaporated and will never return. He wonders if the other two gents in the car
feel the same way but he is dubious because if the truth be told neither Mogau
nor Papa Smile ever gave sign of being embarrassed and for a second the
embarrassment comes surging back and now Punishment squeezes the waitress’ leg
as hard as he possibly can, with all his might and he moves his hand closer up
the chunky thigh towards her well of loneliness and as she flinches and a
mewling kitten sound of pure animal fear bubbles in her throat the
embarrassment fades again and Punishment realises that he literally has control
of his embarrassment now, the control is in his hands, in his finger tips and
he knows suddenly, darkly, how to find himself, how to emerge from the past and
from time, how to re-assemble himself entirely without issues. Oh what joy.
Punishment is almost compelled to thank the waitress. If only she understood
how much good she was going to do him, how useful she would be in his passage
from boyhood to man. Punishment wonders about the word “hood”. For surely this
is one of the strongest, most appealing words in the lexicon? The hood, a
gangster; and the hood, a head covering so integral an element of the
gangster’s clothing that when he wears his hoodie he is, in fact, wearing
himself. Punishment has always wanted to be hooded, to be masked off from the
world of embarrassment. The embarrassment of riches that he never had, was
never privy to. Punishment’s ambitions have always been hooded, been hidden from
the world and from himself, he has never dared to expect anything of the world,
to demand anything of the world. Except for hood status. A hoodlum. What a
strange word, surely one of the strangest English words. Punishment suspected
that the lum part of hoodlum meant something but he could not imagine
what. He had to content himself with the hood, his hood, and of course the hood
also meant neighbourhood and weren’t they on their way in this awful little
Mazda to a neighbourhood where Punishment felt at home? To Tembisa, hood to the
hoods. Punishment turned towards his waitress who was saying “Ntsutsu ntoto
phinyô” and he felt stirrings of genuine emotion for her, not just in his
nether regions but in his heart, in his temple of tenderness, and he moved his head
very close to hers and breathed her in and was disappointed to smell cigarette
smoke and the stale odour of fresh sweat swimming into dried sweat and he
pulled away and dug his fingers more sharply into her leg and drove his left
hand into the obscene root of her that suddenly filled him with hatred. The
idea that he had emerged from this upside down V, from this dank place of
obscure legend appalled Punishment and the thought that his dead mother too
must have possessed such a patch of horror filled him with loathing and he knew
instantly that he would have to show this waitress what her hidden place was
really hidden for, would have to teach her some manners and some respect, for
really, hadn’t she invoked this entire episode herself for merely having that
patch, for simply being a woman? Wasn’t that her choice? Hadn’t her ethereal
spirit from beyond this realm chosen to emerge from the womb as a girl baby?
And wasn’t the reason that the spirit made such a choice to cause mischief and
tempt those spirits who had made the purer choice into the ugly pit of
degradation called sex? And why did they call these demons “the fairer sex”?
Wasn’t it unfair in fact, that instead of having a staff, a member, a rod, they
had nothing at all, nothing but the damp hollow horror of sex itself, a
bleeding mess all covered in thatch. And then all of that pretending as if they
didn’t want to go down to the same place and as if that place was worth
something and hai bo monna you’ll have to pay if you want entrance,
nothing is for mahala these days. Mogau intervenes in Punishment’s
express train of thought, with his delightfully whispered command,
“Say lepele,
lepele.”
The
waitress squeezes the word out as if she’s said it a thousand times before,
she’s really quite good, all three ‘jitas think so and they roar their
encouragement and now Mogau demands that she list all the new words that she’s
learned tonight and stumbles and hesitates but steel is a great teacher and
soon she can say “Ntsutsu ntoto phinyô lepele” all in one breath and
then it’s Papa Smile who adds to the fun and he shouts out from the front where
he’s steering her Mazda
“Say modisa.”
She
says the word then she says it again and now her list has grown to five and
it’s Punishment’s turn to think of a word and he lets go of his steel and with
his right hand he gently cups her chin and traces his forefinger over her lips
while he whispers her new word that she’ll soon be grateful for.
“Pôlô.
Say pôlô, say it nicely, as if you want some more.”
“Pôlô”
she says like a little girl trying to do her best and the car is filled
with the heat of her ‘jitas whom she’s decided to trust, well what else can she
do and she doesn’t understand why her litany of words is driving them wild but
she does as she’s told and the words spill out “Ntsutsu ntoto phinyô lepele
modisa pôlô” then Mogau offers another – (pshinyô) – and the
waitress becomes aware that an offering must always involve some suffering and
tonight that sacrifice must be hers. She doesn’t understand what she knows but
she knows what she knows with a finality that floods her rational self and then
floods the seat as her physical self loses all control. Punishment pulls back
his hand in unrestrained disgust and Mogau screams out “Mpopo! Nnywana!”
Luckily by now the car’s nearly home and when Papa Smile parks Punishment and
Mogau both jump out from the back of the car and steel guides the waitress in
to the shack where only a dim oil lamp has any say over the dark and the
sacrifice takes up all of what’s left of the night.
In the
morning Papa Smile opens the boot of the Mazda and Punishment holds his steel
to the waitress’ boyfriend’s head while Mogau and Ras Kalnikov douse him with a
full tin of paraffin. Papa Smile flicks his Bic lighter on and then quickly
closes the boot to muffle the screams. The waitress is kicked out of the shack
onto the dirt road next to the car where the screaming is coming from. She
can’t walk or even crawl and crumples up like a broken doll unaware of what the
sounds coming from the boot mean or even that the key’s still in the lock and
she could open it if she could only lift her arms. The four ‘jitas drive off in
the beemer and the consensus is that a very good time was had by all.
One week later. Ambush Avenue. 10:33pm. The four of them get back to Papa
Smile’s place too late. The house has been broken into through the garage. The
green roll-up krazy doors have been kicked out of their railings. The
four-paned window has been thoroughly smashed; all the glass cleared away. The
gap is easily big enough for a moderately sized man to crawl through. “Oh shit.
Oh shit,” Papa Smile’s voice betrays the edge of panic. His hands shake while
he tries to insert the key into the lock of the door connecting the garage to
the house. Punishment draws his steel from the ankle-holster on his left leg,
cocks it quickly and feels instantly comforted by the thought that he has 15
dum dum allies. Whatever is about to go down, the odds are somewhat in his
favour. He is as accurate with his left as he is with his right. Punishment
loves the sense of focus that shooting has brought into his life. Papa Smile
finally gets the key in and the lock clicks open. Mogau signals to Ras Kalnikov
behind the steering wheel of the Land Rover. They’re going in. The dreadie’s
eyes dart around nervously. He’s not keen on waiting in this darkened
Kensington street for longer than is strictly necessary. And who will represent
me, Ras Kolnikov wondered, when they kick out my front door…and who were they?
Them who had kicked out Papa Smile’s green krazy door. And behind the green
door a four-panelled window expertly broken and cleaned, allowing slice-free
passage for a medium sized adult to clamber through. Papa Smile signals to
Punishment who signals to Mogau. They’re going in. Papa Smile steps through the
door frame and into the brief stretch of garden leading up to the house.
Punishment follows him, checking the terrain out with sharp agitated scurries
of movement, the Glock extended out in front of him like a metallicised clan
totem. Black steel avenger. Ras Kolnikov has the momentary urge to start the
Jeep and fast track out of Kensington, out of this latest absurd page in life’s
senseless non-narrative. A life spent spinning the Joburg hustle. Around and
around, spinning it so fast sometimes that it feels like the only person he’s
hustling is himself. Every hustle’s different but it’s also always the same. No
honour. No glory. And most painful of all – no development. Life is a weary
bitch stinking of cheap perfume and wearing too much make up to hide her lines,
spinning her hustle because she doesn’t know how not to. Ras Kolnikov feels
like he’s been reincarnated 99000 times. But always back into the same life.
This very singular hustle-spinning whore whose entry sign also functions as her
exit. Ras Kolnikov comes and goes, comes and goes; but he never gets off Ambush
Avenue. He’s waiting for Papa Smile and Mogau and Punishment to emerge
from the broken garage door. He’s waiting for the Joburg council to pay their
electricity bills so that the street lights will come back on this night of
foul omens; he’s waiting for a chance to hop off his skitterishly spinning
hustler’s life and to breathe freely, just for one moment, the air that a free
man breathes. Free air. Breathed in by free lungs. Freedom. The burden of that
word. A shackled word. The more we are governed the less we are free. Who said
that? Ras Kolnikov could not for the life of him remember who. Some anarchist.
Ras Kolnikov was too busy worrying about what might happen if Papa Smile and
Punishment did not emerge from the cream coloured house on the corner of Ambush
Avenue and Memory Lane. Would he go in? Without steel? Would he drive away?
Without his partners. Partners in the crime and dime hustle. Jozi street
spinners – the holy trinity: Papa Smile, Punishment and Mogau. Me myself and I
and I and I. Infinitely recurring like the echo in a dub chamber of horrors.
Ras Kolnikov glanced out of his reverie at the digital clock in the Land
Rover’s green dashboard. 10:34. Ticking away, the moments that made up a long
night. Minute by minute. Notch by notch. “What do you see?” Punishment asked
Papa Smile who was by now on the stoep of the house. “Nothing.” “What do you
hear?” Papa Smile doesn’t know how to say it but he can hear the sound of fear
and evil in his own heart resonating metaphysically, measuring with inordinate
precision the exact distance between the life and the death of his being. Papa
Smile knew that when one balanced the books for the final tightrope journey the
only thing that had any relevance was the rent and how to pay it. This is “to
spend”. Papa Smile prays silently to himself and the gods he knows are truly
too deaf to care about his prayers. “I believe in Glock. I believe in cash. I
believe in the evidence of my sentences. I believe in death after death. I
believe in milking the tit for all it’s worth. I believe in just doing it. I
believe in BMW. I believe in Hennessy. I believe in Timbaland. I believe in me.
Glock and me. And that’s reality.” Then he goes in to the house.
Six days ago the four tsoros are walking through the Zone looking for
kit. Ras Kolnikov only wears Stoned Cherry, Black Coffee, Rip Torn and Sun
Goddess. Papa Smile favours Loxion Kulcha mixed in with Sowearto. Mogau is
loyal to the new Botswana fashion labels, Tru Blu, Chief Goodwill and Taolo
Entaile. Punishment as ever feels somewhat embarrassed about his choice of
attire, Adidas then, Adidas now, Adidas forever. If it was good enough for Bob
Marley then it’s good enough for me he thinks to himself. A series of designer
label shops help rid the four sethakgas of their cash. Soon there is
only enough left of the waitress’ tip money to afford a moletlo at
Primi. As they sat munching on pizza and pasta Punishment pondered the state of
the nation. The system was a cashocracy. All the window dressing about eleven
official languages aside, the smart playaz only spoke one language: bucks.
Everybody wanted tom. Duku. Peppa. Only money counted. Only money was worth
counting. Those who still believed in voting stood in a queue once every five
years. The rest of the country took a day off every five years. The kleva ones.
It was
time to find a portable ATM. They waited in the underground parking until a
couple of elderly white ladies in a Megane with the Z-shaped hatch back drove
carefully towards the exit sign. The beemer kept on the Megane’s tail
effortlessly. Papa Smile grinned and made a tjoerie with his teeth and his
tongue and silently thanked all his gods for their gifts. Papa Smile considered
the beemer a gift and he considered all elderly white ladies gifts and he
considered the suburbs gifts and he considered high walls gifts and he
considered electric fencing gifts and in fact he considered the entire
infra-structure of Joburg; with its few useless maphodisas so scarcely
scattered that they hardly mattered, and its convenient system of straight
getaway roads that always led one from the scene of the crime to salvation –
all this was a gift for which Papa Smile was truly thankful.
Then
the portable ATMs were turning into their driveway in Parkhurst and as the
electric gate rolled itself up Papa Smile gave the signal and he really was
quite proud of young Punishment who was first out of the beemer carrying his
steel as if it was the word of God and he was proselytising with it for the
ZCC. Minutes later when the six of them were all snugged up and cosy in the
living room and the electric gate closed to keep the bad ones out and the high
cement wall preventing the prying eyes of the passers bye from getting a
glimpse of the action Papa Smile carefully explained to the two terrified ATMs
exactly what his and his men’s mission was all about.
“It’s
important that you realise that none of this is personal. You are not being
punished for your sins. You merely happened to leave the Mall at the wrong
time. That’s all. That’s everything explained. It’s all about timing.”
Mogau
finds a few bullet shells in a drawer in the bedroom, comes charging back into
the living room. “Where are the guns?” The elder of the two ATMs answers
fearfully, “There are no guns. They were my husband’s. I turned them in to the
police a few years ago. I don’t believe in guns.” What a foolish woman,
Punishment thinks to himself, not believing in guns. What then? What to believe
in? Money and guns and death were the three things that sprung immediately to
mind whenever he asked himself that question. Papa Smile is also aghast at the
old ATMs lack of belief. He addresses Mogau, “Tie her up,” pointing to the
younger of the two ATMs, “and you,” to Ras Kolnikov, “boil some water.”
Many
hours and many kettles later the old ATM has still not admitted where she is
hiding the guns. Papa Smile is bored of the screaming and he motions to his
‘jitas that it is time to leave. On the way out he pauses in the kitchen where
the second ATM has spent the evening, her mouth covered tightly with duct tape,
her arms and legs thoroughly tied in washing line. Her eyes are screaming at
him. She has nice eyes, soft grey green eyes with a lovely set of wrinkles on
either side. She looks like a woman who has lived properly, lived fully. Papa
Smile is quite pleased that she has not been spared this experience too. It
will bode well for her in the life to come. He is overcome by an irrational
urge and he wraps his arms around the bound up woman and whispers into her ears
“phêpêla tantsha” then he lifts her up, chair and all and moves her body
as if they were doing the slow shuffle. His ears vibrate from the screaming
that she’s doing under the duct tape then he lowers the chair, gives her a
charming smile and waves goodbye.
At the
News Café on Rivonia the four ‘jitas meet up with Itumeleng and Lenong, both
buddies of Mogau’s from high school and that first year at Wits when he studied
political science. The six of them tuck into their portions of chicken while
they analyse the state of the nation. Punishment feels embarrassed when he
listens to Itumeleng and Lenong talk. They are both highly educated and slip
many references in their conversation to books and movies that Punishment has
never heard of, let alone read or seen. Although the two of them are old
buddies of Mogau’s Punishment feels that they are types that can not be
trusted. Intellectuals who have always had it easy. Their effortless use of
complex language annoys Punishment and he feels ashamed of this irritation. He
does not know how to deal with these two, with their airs and graces. The
conversation becomes heated when Lenong declares that it is absurd to be
proudly South African. “How can I be proudly colonised? South of what? For whom
am I a South African? I’m born here. I’m not a direction. It’s only for some
European that the name South African makes any sense. If I’m to be proud I need
to be named. What African father never gave his child a name? How can our
leaders say we are free when don’t even have anything to call ourselves?” Papa
Smile retorts, “So you think you are an African?”
“Sure
I am an African.”
“In
what language then?”
“What
you mean?”
“What
African language does the word Africa come from?”
“I
don’t know.”
“Sure
you don’t know cos there ain’t none. It’s a Latin word. Africanus. We Africans
are the untitled people. Don’t even have a name for ourselves.”
Itumeleng
enters the fray. “I’m not sure that’s true. I remember my grandfather
describing it so, muntu the person, bantu the people and quntu the continent,
the place we are all from.” Quntu. It’s an impressive sounding word, a word
that carries weight. Punishment feels his embarrassment wane as he imagines
himself a Quntuan, Proudly Quntuan. The hood from Quntu. Quntuhood. He smiles
broadly and then laughs out loud.
“What
the fuck nigga? What’s up dog?”
All
eyes are on Punishment.
“Sick.
That Quntu shit is sick!”
Itumeleng
smiles a friendly, disarming smile at Punishment.
“You
like that Boss? It’s yours. As of now you the first citizen of Quntu.”
Papa
Smile roars approval, “Heita Punishment, the muntu from Quntu!”
That
night Punishment has the strangest dream. He’s a little boy of 8, holding his
grandmother’s hand, standing at the side of a road. The neighbourhood is
uncertain at first but then little Punishment recognizes some faces he’s seen at
the Milky Way in Westbury so he presumes that it’s there. A horse drawn cart is
slowly ambling along the road. The driver is a coloured man with a head full of
dreads but his face is all withered away, it could be called a skull if not for
the parchment-like covering that doesn’t really have the texture of skin and
the blood-shot eyes that bulge out in rage while he screams at his horse to
“Hurry up!” Next to him on the old wooden seat is a boy that looks exactly like
Punishment, a little boy who can’t be more than 8, eyes down so as not to be
seen, a little boy obviously being eaten up by embarrassment. Punishment feels
sorry for the little boy and wants to wave at him but his grandmother clutches
his left hand very tightly and his right hand appears to be holding a gun that
is very heavy and he dare not drop the gun in case it goes off and injures
somebody. The dreadlocked driver of the horse and cart starts whipping the
horse that immediately buckles under the strain and suddenly all of the people
on the steet draw out blades and knives and razors and start attacking the
horse, slicing choice cuts of meat out of its quivering body while the driver
rages “Hy’s myne, hy’s myne!” and flicks his whip at the crowd but
nobody takes any notice and then Punishment’s grandmother lets go of his hand
and rushes across the road and joins in the frenzy and now she’s on her hands
and knees and biting at the raw opened flesh of the dying horse, biting and
chewing great lumps of raw flesh from its still living carcass. Punishment runs
into the road and puts his arms around the horse’s head and marries his own
tears to the tears that are coming out of the beast’s huge eyes. Punishment’s
heart is broken and just as the horse takes its last breath he asks it for it’s
name and the horse says very clearly “Dobbin” and then dies. Now the little boy
who looks like Punishment jumps off the wooden seat and stealthily comes up
behind Punishment and sticks the jagged edge of a broken half of a Coke bottle
into Punishment’s back. Punishment screams and wakes up. “Sekatapôwana”
he says out loud, as if to reassure himself that it was only a dream, but in
fact he does not feel reassured at all because he believes implicitly that his
dreams are more real than the awful life of embarrassment tht he has lived up
to now and he takes the dream to be a portent of something awful that is bound
to happen in the near future. He reaches under his pillow for his steel, checks
the magazine, counts the bullets, feels somewhat pacified. Wonders when he will
get to use his beloved steel. Lies back on the small single mattress on the
small single bed in his small single room. Wonders again what the “lum” in
hoodlum could mean. He promises himself to overcome his embarrassment and ask
Papa Smile tomorrow. …lum…hoodlum…and then he sleeps.
Listening
to Burial. We are hostile aliens immune from dying. Hitting the whoonga.
Passing the bottle around. Electrochemical stimulation. The sensations you
feel are entirely real. The four of them just kicking it. Hanging
around at Mogau’s place. Spaceaping it. The phone call comes from Papa
Smile’s sister. She’s a switchboard operator at the AA. The Automobile
Association of South Africa. There’s an ATM stuck out on the Ben Schoeman
Highway. She’s pulled off the road just before the Pretoria turnoff. Papa Smile
thanks his sister, indicates to his ‘jitas that it’s time to fly. “ATM inna
distress.” It takes them 15 minutes to get to the little old woman who is
sitting locked in to her Toyota Camry. Papa Smile’s sister has to log the call
in by the time they arrive so although the job is a piece of cake they know
they don’t have much time. The highway is busy, it’s always busy, and possibly
as many a thousand people watch tiny glimpses of the job as they drive by.
Nobody stops to help the woman. Ras Kolnikov is furious when a gout of her
blood lands on his brand new white trainers. He completely loses his cool, lays
into her beyond the call of duty. Personalises the attack as it were. It’s
Mogau that breaks his concentration, “Come on. We must move.” They leave in two
cars, the woman’s broken body writhing on the side of the highway. By the time
the AA vehicle arrives half an hour later the writhing has stopped.
The
Toyota doesn’t have tracker so they’re able to sell it to Ringo. The four grand
they get for the car is added to the cash the old ATM had in her purse and the
grand they get for the gold wedding ring that was obviously a sign that the old
woman had seen better days, probably driven a lot better car too. The finger
seems to have grown into the ring, or the other way round, and all four ‘jitas
burst into pyrotechnical laughter when Ringo pulls away from the bag that it’s
in. Papa Smile holds the finger in front of Ringo in a teasing gesture, “For to
pick your nose comrade.” Ringo relaxes and grunts, “Get the ring off.” Papa
Smile tosses the ring and finger combination to Punishment who uses his steel
to separate the gold from the cold flesh. Goes outside and flings the finger at
the setting sun. The finger spins, pointing back to Punishment, then pointing
to the sun, spinning finger searching for, but not finding any God to point at.
Then it falls. Pointless finger. Lying in the dust of the dirt road. Unpaved
road leading to the vast informal settlement between Diepsloot and Dainfern. An
area constantly gutted by fires. A neighbourhood without running water, without
electricity – a netherzone, netherhood. Hood of hoods. Punishment thinks about
the finger briefly, worried that it might be found by someone. That’s it’s evidence.
But evidence of what? Found by who? Punishment guffaws. Fingered. The hood
fingered by a finger. That would be mighty funny. Not. Punishment forgives
himself. He knows that forgiveness is what it’s all about. He’s watched Oprah
many times. He searches for his inner child and gives him a hug. Punishment Now
hugs Punishment Then, Punishment Junior if you like. It’s a touching moment.
Punishment goes back into the shack. It’s time for them to leave. Everybody’s
hungry.
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