Russell H Kaschula is a Senior Lecturer in the Department of Linguistics and Southern African Languages at the University of Cape Town. He has a doctorate in African Literature. He has been the recipient of the Nadine Gordimer / COSAW Short Story Award, the young African Leaders Project Award to the USA and the Ernest Oppenheimer Research Fellowship to the University of London.

The forgiver

It was a cold winter morning in Cape Town. The wind had subsided and the sun was shining brightly again. I was about to take a walk to the colourful Observatory town centre to do some creative browsing, a Saturday morning ritual, when Mxolisi ‘the forgiver’, or Michael as he often called himself, knocked loudly on my front door. He had a distinctive knock, loud and demanding for someone who lived off the kindness of others!
     ”Hey, my bra (1) — how are you today, kunjani man? Hey, my bra, just look at this ...” he said removing his sankwana (2) from his shaven head. “Those buggers stabbed me coz I’m going with a coloured woman, ek sê. I’ve got stitches, man. Ndiphantse ukufa man. (3) No-one gives a damn anymore. And now I need money to pay for medicines. Hey, kunzima my bra — it’s tough.”
     ”Why don’t you get a job, Mike. Fumana umsebenzi man! Ikhona nje i-RDP. (4) Maybe you can even sell Laduma tickets. I’ll help you get started,” I offered, knowing full well that Mike’s economic strategy was a far cry from RDP and selling Laduma tickets.
     ”Don’t talk to me about RDP,” Mxolisi said abruptly. “Yintoni leyo? (5) The election has come and gone brother. Now it’s you and me. We must look after one another. Ndinomfazi wam mna, nabantwana, man. (6) If you give me something, I give it to my wife. I must support her you know.”
     ”Ewe, kodwa uyasela wena Mxolisi. (7) If you drink you’ll get beaten up again. Why do you drink?” I asked inquisitively.
     ”It’s my friends, brother. Some of them work and then, bandisa kwezinye iindawo (8) — you know, shebeens my friend.”
     By this time we had settled down on the front steps, as Mxolisi believed in leisurely discussion as part of his economic policy.
     ”But, hey my friend, I’m in trouble man. You know I have a room there in Belhar where my wife stays, with that old coloured lady I once told you about. And now my wife’s mother is there my bra. But akaphilanga man (9) — she had a bad accident. With all the rain and wet she slipped and fell man, and I think there’s something wrong with her inside. She can hardly move, akakwazi nokuhamba man, she can’t even walk. And she’s old you know ...
     It seemed obvious where this discussion was leading. But I had learnt to expect the unexpected.
     ”So, uzokufuna imali ke ngoku Mike, ufuna ukumsa esibhedlele?” (10)
     ”Yes, my bra, she must get to a doctor, but I’ve got no transport. So I’m asking you to help me, my friend. She needs to go for X-rays at Groote Schuur, nomfazi wam une-worry man. (11) Kunzima man my bra. And the people who own the house, they haven’t got a car...
     Needless to say I was not meant to do my browsing in colourful Observatory on that particular weekend. It was about 12 ‘o clock when we finally left and the sun had already disappeared behind a thick blanket of cloud which hung low over the peninsula.
     Mxolisi had convinced me of his mother-in-law’s predicament and I could sense that he genuinely felt that she needed medical assistance.
     But I liked Mxolisi and we had come to know one another — in a manner of speaking. We would often walk together to the shops in Obs, or we would sit on my front steps and chat about what was happening in the country.
     ”You just want my money,” I sometimes said to him jokingly.
     ”Ewe, unyanisile, uyandinceda. (12) But I must look after you here, my bra. There are a lot of skelms, (13) you know. Have you heard of the gangs, the scorpions and the others? But the skelms know that I know you, so you’re OK.”
     ”Yes, Mike, you can be my bodyguard,” I said smiling and looking at his booze wizened body.
     We laughed a lot when we were together and the complications of our existence momentarily disappeared.
     Soon we were speeding along the N2, and then we took the off-ramp to Heideveld and Gugulethu in the direction of Belhar.
     ”You should have gone further man,” Mxolisi said. “I think we’re going the wrong way. I don’t normally go this way. There’s another turn closer to the airport that the taxi normally takes. Kodwa, but I’m sure we’ll get there, it’s not far from here.”
     ”We’ll keep going a bit and see if you recognise anything. Anyway, sincokola kamnandi (14) man,” I said in between bursts of laughter.
     ”But more seriously, I think this is where the station strangler hid his victims,” Mxolisi volunteered, gauging my reaction at the same time.
     ”Hey, uyagula la mntu, he’s sick man,” he said shaking his head.
     ”Do you realise that we’re lost?” I asked, feeling a little insecure. This may well be strangler country.”
     We passed a group of youths standing together on the left side of the road.
     ”Which way to Belhar,” Mxolisi asked.
     ”Gat maar net straight an (15) ,” one of the youths shouted. The others all laughed loudly. But it can’t be at us, I thought.
     We drove for another half a kilometre or so and the tar suddenly became gravel, or so we thought. I could see some houses further on.
     ”Shall we just try and get to those houses?” I asked.
     ”Inoba ikhona indlela phaya (16) ,” Mxolisi commented, at the same time pointing to a distant road in the vicinity of the houses.
     The gravel track ended abruptly. The car swerved slightly and the engine began to rev but we weren’t moving.
     ”We’re stuck in the sand,” I said with a worried look.
     ”Wenza ntoni man, what are you doing? Mxolisi asked irritably. “My wife’s waiting for me, and now this! I told you we’re going the wrong way,” he continued his onslaught whilst disembarking from the car.
     We stood silently and stared. The wheels had sunk away in the soft sand. Suddenly I felt very alone and gripped in the pangs of paranoia, my heart squeezed tight in a claustrophobic clasp.
     ”Well, at least there’s two of us,” I said reassuringly, taking a deep breath and filling my lungs with the fresh fragrance of fynbos which seemed to permeate everywhere.
     ”I’ll get the wheel spanner or something from the boot — It’ll help us dig,” I said moving to the rear of the car and hoping to find a miracle spade. Mxolisi was already on his knees, frantically digging away in the dry sand. But as fast as Mxolisi was digging, the sand seemed to be filling up around the tyre.
     After some time we seemed to be winning and Mxolisi had already finished with digging out his side of the car. He had wedged the rubber car mat under the tyre to give it extra traction. The mood had lightened and we were once again in high spirits as our mission looked almost completed.
     ”Come on, hurry up, khawuleza man, singxamile (17) ,” Mxolisi chided jokingly, slapping me on the back. “Move over man, let me help you. You guys aren’t used to hard work.”
     ”You’re the right one to talk,” I answered jovially. “I still think that I must ask Minister Jay Naidoo to get you a job in the RDP, building houses or something, ungafa wena (18) . You’d be dead in a week.”
     ”Ag man, wazi ntoni wena (19) ?” Mxolisi asked as we scratched away frenetically at the sand, neatly exposing the tyre.
     ”I think it’s time for the other rubber mat,” I volunteered enthusiastically.
     Our task was so engaging that we were oblivious of the world around us. But all that was about to change. A huge rock came crashing through the windscreen of the car, splitting the silent air around us and sending splinters of glass in all directions. Mxolisi and I looked at one another in silent shock, unable to utter a word. But Mxolisi’s face flashed in anger as he got up from where he was kneeling.
     ”Nenza ntoni man, what the hell are you doing? he shouted.
     Six youths stepped out from the dense fynbos, like leopards emerging from their lair in preparation for the hunt. I recognised the youth in front as the one who had given us the directions. He wore a distinctive red head band and he was carrying something which resembled a club. Without saying a word he raised the club which smashed into Mxolisi’s face with the speed of lightning. Mxolisi winced in pain as his old head wound burst open once more, blood streaming down his face. He collapsed onto his knees and began to slowly crawl away without saying a word.
     ”Kala hie (20) ,” the youth said laughing as they all gathered around Mxolisi. I had not moved from where I sat on the dry barren sand, my parched throat filled with nothing but hollow sounds. I starred in disbelief as one of the youths kicked Mxolisi in the stomach, capitulating him onto his side.
     ”Wies djy (21) ?” one of the youths asked. “Djy dink djy’s lanie met die wit baas? Wat wieties djy (22) ?”
     Mxolisi remained silent, racked in pain, but crawling slowly towards the undergrowth.
     ”Djy’s ’n vuil ding, djy, ek verdala djou nou (23) ,” he said lashing out at Mxolisi again. “Vat sy raap (24) ,” the youth with the red band motioned to what seemed to be his second in command, instructing him to remove Mxolisi’s watch.
     ”Please leave him alone, los hom net, hy’s my vriend,” I said, finding my voice once again and pleading for Mxolisi’s life. The club came down against the back of my head and a searing pain shot through my entire body as I collapsed on the sand in a crumpled heap. I managed to see Mxolisi crawling away and I hoped he would be safe.
     ”Wat het djy virrie outies saamgebring, he (25) ?” the youth shouted loudly into my face, penetrating my pulsating cranium, throbbing in pain. My vision was blurred and it was difficult to see the attacker, but I remembered a long scar on the side of his face, and the gold rings on his right hand. The club had been discarded and a bright metal blade flashed in his hand. I fainted for a brief moment, but was suddenly brought back to my brutal reality as one of the other youths kicked me in the ribs and slapped me through the face. I lost control of my bladder and urinated, the warm reassuring liquid briefly consoling my cold, stiffened body. My pants were soiled and the youths laughed loudly as they jabbed me and poked me, rolling me over in the sand to reveal my misery. I could feel a trickle of blood from my deafened ear, but there was no pain as I was consumed by a dull numbness within the inner sanctuaries of my silent misery.
     ”Die lanie yak duur lappies (26) ,” one of the youths said looking me over like a prize animal.
     ”Dja, en kala die raap oppie hand, ek se (27) ,” another commented.
     ”Vat djy die lappies (28) ,” the leader ordered one of the youths. I could feel them tugging at my tired body as they rolled me around once more in the sand which had now begun to stick to my cold sweat which was freezing my stiffened spine.
     The leader of the youths came at me with his glistening flick-knife, jabbing me here and there and making a long shallow cut down my left cheek. I felt a burning sensation and tasted the salt of my blood, but there was no pain as I once again fainted and became part of another world.
     When I finally woke I was sitting stark naked, propped up against the tyre of the car, my knees were drawn upwards in a foetal position. The pain had returned and I was unable to move. Blood trickled down my side and I was having difficulty breathing as the air escaped from my wounded chest in a faint wheezing sound. Two of the youths remained and the rest had moved on down the road. The youth with the red band was standing over me, blocking out the light as the cold winter wind blew against my battered skin. He unzipped his fly and took out his penis, holding it in one hand he urinated against the side of my face, the warm urine burning into the cut on my cheek.
     I wondered what had happened to Mxolisi ‘the forgiver’, but I felt sure that he had managed to reach safety. He was strong and he knew the area well.
     By now the leader of the gang had moved off and only one of the gangsters remained.
     ”You’ll be OK brother. You must be cold,” I remember him saying as he draped his expensive black leather jacket across my cold, bare shoulders.

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